I breathed a sigh of relief that at least one employee seemed to be cooperating, but I suspected it wouldn’t be long before things turned awkward. Sooner or later I’d have to send Jenny into the kitchen to get Helmut’s prints, but I figured I’d wait before scaring the poor child to death. As it turned out, Helmut wasn’t the biggest problem.
More employees arrived and I introduced Duncan to Gary Gunderson, who works as both a bouncer and a backup bartender. Gary is bald, tattooed, and built like a linebacker. His appearance alone does the job on most occasions, but his deep, rumbling voice scares off any contrarians who aren’t intimidated by his looks. Gary has had to get physical a few times, mostly with people who are too drunk and too stupid to know better, but it’s been an exception rather than a rule.
I filled Gary in on what had happened, who the victim was, and that the alley was off limits. He looked nervous, eyed Duncan suspiciously, and after the introductions and instructions were done he pulled me aside so that we were standing next to the door. “It’s not the best time to be bringing in someone new, what with Ginny’s death and all.”
“Maybe not,” I agreed. “But I’m doing a friend a favor.”
Gary shot a troubled look toward Duncan. “And just how is it you know this friend?”
“His father knew my father,” I said, relaying the story Duncan and I had worked out earlier. I hoped Gary wouldn’t inquire any deeper and he didn’t. But then I told him about Jenny and the fingerprinting, and he got angry.
“I’m not doing that,” he said with vehemence. “It’s a violation of my rights.”
“I know it’s a pain,” I countered in the softest voice I could muster. “But they need our prints to rule us out.”
“Or pin something on us that we didn’t do,” Gary grumbled. “And since I live alone, I don’t have an alibi for last night. That’s the kind of stuff these cops love.”
“Lots of people won’t have alibis,” I told him. “Hell, I don’t have one.” Gary still looked ticked so I tried a different tack. “Look, I told the cops all of my employees would cooperate with their investigation. It was a condition for them letting me open the bar tonight. So please do it, Gary. I need the money.”
Gary scowled and started to say something more, but a knock on the front door interrupted him. It was my two cocktail waitresses Debra Landers and Missy Channing. During the week I could usually get by with just one waitress, a bartender, a part-time cook, and myself. But on the weekends things got busy enough that I needed to ramp up the help. Gary unlocked the door to let them in, and Duncan, apparently unwilling to let us have any more time out of his earshot, joined us.
Debra was a forty-something married mom of two teenaged boys. She typically worked from eleven to five Wednesday and Thursday and eleven to eleven on Fridays and Saturdays. Her husband made a decent living as a car salesman but there was little left over at the end of the month, so Debra’s work money went toward the occasional extras and a savings account earmarked for her boys’ college tuition. My customers loved her, not only because she had a fun and charming personality, but because she was a good listener. She had a knack for helping people sort out their problems, a trait that earned her the nickname Ann because of her last name. She also loved to bake and more often than not she arrived at work with samplings of her latest efforts, which she then generously shared among her lunchtime customers. Tonight she had a tray full of cupcakes that the dinner crowd would get instead.
Missy, a twenty-two-year-old single mom who lived with her parents, was my full-time night waitress, working from five to closing Wednesday through Sunday. She was also the only employee I hired myself and didn’t inherit from Dad. An attractive blonde with a bubbly personality and a nice figure, she was the flip side of Billy’s coin when it came to bringing in customers; I’d wager half my male customers had a crush on her. But on the downside, she wasn’t very bright. She dropped out of high school her sophomore year because she got pregnant, and two kids later she was still trying to get her GED. But she had a savantlike ability to remember faces and drinks. If she waited on you once, the next time she saw you she wouldn’t remember your name or when she last saw you, even if it was just the night before. Nor could she total up your drink tab or calculate a tip. But she’d remember what drink you ordered.
“Oh my G-d!” Missy blurted as soon as she was let in. “I can’t believe you found a dead body in the alley! I mean is that freakish or what? Was it anybody we know?” She and Debra both stood there wide-eyed, waiting for me to fill them in.
“It was Ginny Rifkin,” I told them. Debra had been working at the bar for three years and knew who Ginny was, but Missy didn’t, even though she had seen and waited on her a few times.
Debra muttered a half-whispered “Oh, no, poor Ginny.”
Missy looked from me to Debra and back at me again. “Who is this Ginny person? Do I know her?”
Gary said, “She’s a local Realtor who was dating Mack’s father when he died. Short lady, in her fifties, blond bob?”
“Oh, okay,” Missy said, nodding. “She used to come in here and talk to you about selling the place, right?”
I nodded, surprised Missy knew about Ginny’s efforts.
“She was a Brandy Alexandra,” Missy said.
I leaned toward Duncan and said, “That’s a Brandy Alexander blended with ice cream instead of shaken with cream. You use an ounce of brandy, an ounce of crème de cacao, a scoop of vanilla ice cream and only half the usual ice. Top it off with a sprinkle of nutmeg.”
Duncan looked both confused and annoyed, not surprising since I don’t think he’d had time to learn what a Brandy Alexander was, or even a plain Alexander for that matter. Then I realized that Debra and Missy were both staring at him looking equally confused.
“Oh, sorry,” I said. “Where are my manners? I forgot the introductions.”
I introduced Debra and Missy to Duncan, using the same story I’d used with everyone else. While Missy gave Duncan a slow and brazen head-to-toe assessment, Debra barely gave him a second look. She was more interested in the murder. “Poor, poor Ginny,” she said. “How was she killed? And do they know who did it?”
“Well, the who part remains to be determined,” I said. “As to how . . .” I stopped, remembering Duncan’s instructions about not revealing the details. “You’d have to ask the cops. No one is telling me a thing.”
Gary snorted. “Yeah, like the cops would ever tell anyone anything,” he said.
Jenny the fingerprint tech joined us then, and when she hit Gary up for his fingerprints I dragged Duncan away before Gary had a chance to go off again.
I led Duncan into the kitchen and for the next twenty minutes Helmut showed him the basics of our food prep, grunting out instructions and talking as little as possible. Duncan tried to engage him in a discussion about the murder, but Helmut didn’t want to play. He ignored Duncan’s questions and went back to the food prep every time Duncan tried to change the subject.
When we were done with the food prep training, I took Duncan into my office and shut the door so I could fill him in on what I knew about Missy, Debra, Helmut, and Gary. But before I could say a word, Duncan took a phone call. I watched him with curiosity, hoping to be able to glean what the subject of the call might be, but apparently the person on the other end was doing all the talking. All Duncan said was “Interesting,” and just before he hung up, “Thanks.”
When he disconnected the call he turned to me and said, “I’ve had some guys working on that list of employees and customers you gave me earlier.”
I’m not sure if it was his expression or the tone of his voice, but something triggered an uncomfortable buzzing sensation up and down my spine. “Yes?” I said, swallowing hard, fairly certain I wasn’t going to like what I heard next.
“Why didn’t you tell me Gary has a criminal record?”
Chapter 8
“What are you talking about?” I said, staring at Duncan. I had a sinking fe
eling in my gut as I recalled Gary’s reaction to the idea of being fingerprinted. If what Duncan said was true, I now understood why Gary had acted that way. Yet I had a hard time believing my father would have hired a criminal to work the bar. I knew he thoroughly vetted all of his potential hires, and he was always very safety and security conscious.
Duncan dished the facts. “Gary Gunderson did time ten years ago for a drug-related crime that included an assault. He was only out for a year before he was arrested for his involvement in the armed robbery of a convenience store.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Duncan’s expression softened. “You don’t want to believe me, but it doesn’t change the facts. You didn’t know?”
I leaned back against my desk and saw floating shards of broken glass drifting along the periphery of my vision. Was it the feel of the hard edge of the desk through my pants that triggered the visual manifestation? Or the shock of betrayal?
“There must be a mistake,” I said. “Gary has never given me any reason to doubt him.”
“That may be, but it doesn’t change the facts. When did you say your father hired him?”
“Right before Christmas last year, a few weeks before he was shot.”
“That’s right around the time Gary was paroled. Did he have an alibi for your father’s murder?”
“He said he was home sick with the flu. I already told you that.”
“That’s what he told you. But there’s no way to verify it, is there?”
“No,” I said, my shoulders sagging. Then I shook my head. “But I still can’t believe Gary had anything to do with my father’s murder. He was horrified by what happened, said he felt guilty that he hadn’t been here, and that if he had, maybe he could have prevented the whole thing.”
“Of course he’d say something like that.”
The tone in his voice made me taste chocolate but it was slightly bitter. I fought down an urge to go out front and ask Gary about it right away. But I hesitated, in part because I needed time to digest the information, and also because I needed Gary at his post for the night. I was in denial and knew it on some subconscious level. But I chose to deny my denial.
Duncan didn’t make it easy for me. “I’m betting he doesn’t have an alibi for last night, either,” he said.
My whole body sagged. “He doesn’t. I know because he told me so just a bit ago.” I glanced at my watch, saw that it was almost five o’clock, and gave Duncan an imploring look. “I really need to get the place open and I need Gary here for the night. Can you talk to him about all of this later, after closing?” I mentally crossed my fingers, hoping Duncan would be willing to postpone any serious interrogation.
“We’ll play it by ear for now,” he said, “but no promises. My guys are going to keep digging and if they come up with any concrete proof that Gary is involved, we will arrest him.”
“Fair enough,” I said, like I had any say in the matter. “Shall we get to it then?”
We headed back out to the main bar area and did a few last-minute checks before unlocking the front door. My place isn’t huge; there’s seating for twenty at the half-moon-shaped bar, and the tables will comfortably seat sixty more. Most of the seating is in the main part of the bar, though there are a couple of small tables in a side room where I have a pool table and a dartboard. Along a hallway in the back by the kitchen entrance is my office, its door easily visible to the main bar area and the bar itself, and the rest rooms. At the end of the hallway are three more doors, one to the basement, one to my apartment, and one that opens onto the alley out back. All of these doors remain locked, though ever since smoking had to be banned inside the bar, customers have taken to smoking in the alley and occasionally propping the door open so they can get back inside.
The bar arrangement and layout easily accommodates my daytime crowd most days, which is busy at lunch but typically slow in the afternoon. Then it picks up again around dinnertime and depending on the day of the week, the place may fill up by eight at night, with some folks hovering to wait for a table to open up. Often times there are a half dozen customers standing around the pool table or the dartboard, and during football season people may be stacked three or four deep at the end of the bar where the big-screen TV is mounted. There have been some nights when I’d wager the bar held over a hundred people.
My hopes for a profitable night to offset my lost lunchtime income got off to a good start. My location is not far from the Bradley Center, an indoor arena where a variety of sports and entertainment events are held, and there are a number of hotels nearby as well, so business on the weekends is typically good and often a mix of locals and visitors. Tonight I suspected the mix to lean a little more toward the local side as curious people dropped in to see what was up. News about the murder had been airing on TV all day, though without identifying the victim. I decided to start the night by letting Billy and Gary stay behind the bar and do most of the drink mixing while Missy, Debra, Duncan, and I waited tables and handled the food orders.
In keeping with his theory that the killer was someone who knew me well, Duncan had instructed me to try to focus on my regular customers. The first one we waited on was Cora Kingsley, a forty-something single woman who owns a computer troubleshooting company and lives in an apartment not far from my bar. She comes in often—five or six nights a week and sometimes for lunch as well—and has been doing so for the past four years. Cora is a self-proclaimed first-class nerd who will tell anyone she meets that she belonged to the chess, math, and computer clubs in high school. She’s extremely bright, has a master’s degree in some type of computer programming area, and is very much in demand for her skills both in programming and troubleshooting computer problems. But you’d never know it to look at her. Cora was about as far from the stereotypical nerd image as a woman could get. She had a voluptuous figure, an attractive face, a sexy demeanor, and shoulder-length, wavy red hair, though the color was artificial and she had a tendency to let her roots show.
As we neared Cora’s table, I heard bells chiming in a specific pattern, one that repeated itself several times. I recognized it as one of my synesthetic reactions and was about to dismiss it when I remembered hearing the exact same sound and pattern when I stumbled upon Ginny’s body that morning. The realization stymied me, and for a few seconds I just stood there staring at Cora with a curious expression, wondering why I would hear that sound in both places. I knew the answer; there was a connection of some sort between Ginny’s body and Cora Kingsley. I just had to figure out what it was.
“Mack, what’s going on? Are you okay?” Cora asked, staring back at me, her eyes wide, her voice filled with excitement. “I saw the police here earlier and heard that someone was found dead in the alley. Is that true?” Though her question was directed to me, she turned to study Duncan and gave him a shameless head-to-toe perusal. A second later she smiled her approval, began toying with a lock of her hair, and shifted gears with the smoothness of a racecar driver. “And who might this be?” she asked.
“This is Duncan Albright. He’s an old family friend who needs a job, so I’m training him on how to tend bar and wait tables until he can find something better. This is Cora Kingsley, one of my best customers.”
“Well, Duncan, if you need a job, I might be able to help you out,” Cora said, looking chipper. “Do you have any computer skills?”
“I’m a bit of a Luddite, I’m afraid,” he said. I wondered if this was true or if he was just saying so to head off Cora’s advances.
“No problem,” Cora cooed. “I’d be happy to take you under my wing, so to speak.” She punctuated this with a saucy wink and added, “I’ll bet you’re a quick learner.”
We took her order for a BLT with a side of waffle fries and a glass of chardonnay, and then moved on to the next table, where I introduced Duncan to Joe and Frank Signoriello. Apparently the brothers were unwilling to wait until tomorrow to get the scoop, and had decided to come in for dinner instead after the
ir ungracious booting at lunchtime. The brothers, both of whom had thick salt-and-pepper hair, matching noses they called their “classic Italian schnozzes,” lively brown eyes, and contagious smiles, were a welcome sight. They had been patrons of the bar for as long as I could remember and they were like family to me—two occasionally dotty, but always caring and entertaining uncles. In their typical fashion, they got right to the point, not bothering to waste time on polite introductions or other niceties.
“Mack, what the hell’s been going on here today?” Joe said.
At the same time, Frank said, “When are you going to tell us what’s up?”
I smiled at them and ignored their questions long enough to introduce Duncan.
“Old family friend, eh?” Joe said giving Duncan a quick once-over, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “How come I never heard Big Mack mention you?”
“Hey, my father didn’t tell you guys everything, you know,” I said quickly, anxious to avoid further inquiries.
Joe stared at Duncan a second longer and then shrugged him off. “So what the hell is going on?” he said, turning back to me. “Is it true they found another body out back in the alley?”
I nodded grimly. “I found her this morning when I took out my trash.”
“Her who?” Frank shot back. “Was it someone we know?”
“It was Ginny Rifkin.”
“No!” Joe said.
“Damn!” said Frank. Then his eyes softened. “Aw, Mack honey, how awful for you after what happened to Big Mack. I can only imagine how scary it must have been.”
“Do the cops have any suspects?” Joe asked.
“Quite a few,” I said. Then for Duncan’s benefit, just to let him know that I wasn’t being lulled into any false sense of security, I added, “Even me, it seems.”
Frank dismissed this idea with a disgusted pfft and a little hand wave. “Don’t pay them no attention,” he said. “They have to look at everyone initially. I’m sure having two murders occur behind your bar must look like more than a coincidence to them, but we all know you couldn’t hurt a fly, Mack.”
Murder on the Rocks Page 7
