Murder on the Rocks

by Allyson K. Abbott

  “So?” Duncan said with a shrug. “Rats are known to do that sort of thing.”

  “But after I found it I called an exterminator to come and check the place out, thinking there might be more of them. He not only came up empty, he said he couldn’t figure out how the rat got into the vent in the first place because it was a big rat and there was some kind of screen in the vent. That screen was intact and something the rat couldn’t have fit through. Plus the floor grate covering the vent had fresh scratch marks in it by the screws and along one edge, marks the exterminator said made it appear as if someone had taken the grate up to put the rat in there.”

  I took another drink before continuing. “If it hadn’t been for that discovery, I might not have thought twice about the cockroach invasion at the start of this summer, but it was a little strange, too.”

  “How so?”

  “It was as if they appeared and multiplied overnight. One day, no cockroaches. The next day, I had hundreds, thousands of them. Needless to say, it put off a few of my customers and I had to shut the place down for three days to get an exterminator in here and then clean up after he fumigated the place.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, wow.”

  “Are you still having these issues or have they stopped?”

  “I haven’t had a problem with missing money or watered-down booze for the past couple of months, and there haven’t been any new infestations of any kind.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I guess, but I’ve just discovered a new problem. I’ve had a couple of dozen bottles go missing from my inventory downstairs in the basement, and whoever is taking the stuff knows what they’re doing because it’s the expensive liquors that are disappearing, the Grey Goose vodka, the Patrón tequila, and some other top shelf bottles. My employees know about the other problems but I haven’t told anyone about this one because I’m not sure it’s even connected to the other stuff. Whatever the case, the end result has been a huge hit to my customer base, lost revenues, added expense.... I’ll be honest with you, Duncan. I’m hanging on by a thread here. I own the building and it’s worth some money, but my father borrowed against it to buy stuff for the bar and there’s nothing left now. That’s why I was so determined to open for business today. I can’t afford any more lost revenue.”

  Duncan nodded and the two of us sipped our drinks. “It certainly suggests an inside job,” he said. “How else would anyone be able to do all those things?”

  “You think it’s one of my employees.” It wasn’t a question. I was smart enough to make the connections; I just didn’t want to. I’m a good ostrich at times.

  “It has to be someone who spends a lot of time here, who knows the bar and your routines, someone who has access to the place. Tell me, have you ever noticed anything else that struck you as wrong?”

  His question confused me. “What do you mean by wrong?”

  “You know, little things that seem out of place, or anyone who you’ve found in a part of the building that they had no business being in at the time, that sort of thing.”

  I frowned and hesitated to answer. On the one hand, I had incidents like that nearly every day. Things were always being moved by my customers and employees and my synesthesia registered all these changes on some level. It was something I worked at ignoring on a daily basis. But there was something else, and I didn’t know if I wanted to share it with Duncan.

  “Come on, spit it out,” Duncan encouraged, reading me like the proverbial book.

  “You’ll probably think I’m crazy, or overemotional, or something like that.”

  “I promise to keep an open mind.”

  “And I’m not even sure if what I’ve experienced is real or some of my reactions.”

  Duncan stared at me, patient but expectant.

  “Sometimes late at night when I’m in bed I’ve heard things.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  “Just noises . . . creaks, and bangs, and knocks . . . all the settling sounds you might expect to hear in an old building.” I shrugged as if to dismiss them but Duncan saw right through it.

  “But you don’t think it’s the building, or one of your reactions, do you?”

  I shook my head. “It’s more than just the sounds, it’s a feeling I’ve had whenever it’s happened. I don’t know if it’s my synesthesia, or my gut. Hell, maybe it’s just my overactive imagination.”

  “Does anyone else have keys to the bar beside you?”

  “Sure. Debra and Pete both have one because they’re responsible for opening when they work.”

  “Did your father ever give Ginny a key?”

  I started to shake my head but then stopped. Based on what I once thought I knew of my father, I didn’t think he would have done something like that. But over the past twenty-four hours I’d come to realize I might not have known my father as well as I thought I did. “I don’t think so,” I told Duncan, “but I can’t be certain.”

  We both took another sip of our drinks as we sat there, contemplating the implications until Duncan broke the silence.

  “Given the fact that we can’t be certain your father didn’t give out keys, and given that several of your employees already have them, our list of suspects isn’t getting narrowed down much. Even the employees who aren’t known to have a key might have swiped and copied one from one of the employees who do. Hell, one of your regular customers could. Is there a lock on the door that leads upstairs to your apartment?”

  “Yes, a key lock in the knob and a dead bolt on the apartment side.”

  “Do you routinely lock it?”

  “I do. It was something Dad beat into my head at an early age because the door is at the far end of the back hallway, out of sight much of the time, and close to the exit. Since I spent time up there alone late at night while Dad was down here tending bar, he insisted that I lock both locks whenever I went up.”

  “Good. Stick with that routine. And I’d suggest you look into getting the locks changed and a new set of keys made. And when you do, I wouldn’t give anyone a copy.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “You need to be scared, or at least on your toes.”

  With that frightening caveat, I took a big gulp of my drink before asking, “So who else do you like for the crime?”

  “Despite what I said earlier, I still have an interest in Cora.”

  “I’ll bet you do, after she shared her spare time hobby,” I teased.

  Duncan laughed and shook his head. “That’s got nothing to do with it, other than to convince me that there’s something a little off or odd about her. But a woman scorned is one of the oldest motives in the books. To be honest, I’m hoping we can clear her quickly because if she’s as good as she says she is with the computer stuff, she could be a valuable asset down the road.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t see Cora as a killer. And why kill Ginny now? My father’s been dead for ten months so Ginny didn’t pose any threat to her anymore. Ginny hasn’t even been in the bar for several months so it’s not like she could be competing with Cora for any other men.”

  “It doesn’t mean they weren’t involved with the same man outside the bar. And as for killing Ginny this long after your father, Cora could be mentally unbalanced. If that’s the case, there’s no telling how bizarre her thoughts might be even though she seems normal on a day-to-day basis. At the very least she seems to be a sex addict.”

  I smiled. “Normal might be pushing it a bit when it comes to Cora, but I think eccentric fits her better than crazy.”

  “We’ll see. And then we have that Amundsen fellow. He’s got motive aplenty for wanting Ginny dead. Have you ever met his wife, Suzanne?”

  “No, but I almost feel like I know her, at least Tad’s version of her. He talks about her all the time, and not in a nice way. But I’ve never actually met the woman.”

  “I have.”

  I shot him a look of surprise. “How? I thought you just m
oved here.”

  “I did. But Suzanne Collier comes from family money, big family money. Her father owns half of Chicago. That’s how I met her, at a fund-raiser in Chicago for the Illinois PBA.”

  “PBA?”

  “The Police Benevolent Association.”

  “Ah. So what is Suzanne Collier like?”

  “She’s very . . . commanding,” Duncan said with a half-grin. “If Amundsen presents her as domineering and controlling, I wouldn’t have a hard time believing that. But it might also be the money that’s in control. Money is a powerful motive, and the fact that Amundsen doesn’t just walk away from his wife shows he’s reluctant to give that money up. So then the question becomes how desperate Amundsen is to escape. That real estate deal was his big hope and it left him in worse financial shape than when he started. Ginny was the one who built up his hope in the first place and talked him into it. That sounds like a potential motive to me. He had to have been at least a little pissed at Ginny, and I’d wager it was more than a little.”

  “But if money is his big motivator, why not just kill his wife? That would get him the money, assuming he didn’t get caught.”

  “There’s the rub then. As the husband he’d be the primary suspect and I think he’s smart enough to know that. So maybe he vented on the woman he thinks screwed him over.”

  I gave him a curious look. “Do you think she did screw him? Is there evidence to suggest Ginny wasn’t honest in her dealings?”

  “I don’t know. We haven’t had time to look into Ginny’s business dealings that closely yet. But I’m not sure Amundsen’s interpretation of the way Ginny presented the deal is how it actually went down. Amundsen was, and I think still is, a desperate man. And people in general tend to hear what they want to hear, desperate people even more so.”

  I nodded and another silence followed as we drank. Then Duncan said, “I suppose it’s only fair to tell you that I haven’t ruled you out yet, either.”

  I nearly choked on my drink and Duncan slapped me gently on the back a couple of times. Something in the experience, though I don’t know if it was the choking or Duncan’s touch, made me see bright sparkly lights overhead.

  “Are you all right?” Duncan asked.

  I grabbed a napkin to cough into and nodded. “I’m okay,” I said when I could. “You just caught me off guard.”

  “I’m good at doing that. They teach it to us in detective school.”

  I realized his hand was still on my back, just lying there. Feeling awkward, I slipped off my stool and from beneath his touch. I made my way behind the bar, holding what was left of my drink, which I poured down the sink. I washed the glass, set it aside to dry, and said, “I think it’s time we call it a night. You’re welcome to come back tomorrow and continue your little charade. I open for lunch at eleven.” I paused, drying my hands on a bar towel. “That is, unless you plan to arrest me before then.”

  “I’m not going to arrest you tonight, or tomorrow,” he said. “Unless you confess, or some solid evidence turns up that changes my mind. There are still too many things that don’t add up.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the fact that Ginny’s car is still missing.”

  “You haven’t found it?”

  He shook his head. “But don’t worry. While it’s true I can’t rule you out as a suspect yet, you’re very low on my list. Mainly because I don’t think you killed your father and my gut keeps telling me these two murders are connected somehow.”

  “Whatever.” I felt a tiny surge of anger and I wasn’t sure why. I suppose it might have been the fact that this man, who I found myself increasingly attracted to, thought I might be a murderer. As romantic notions go, that one was a real relationship ender. Then again, I already had a relationship that I barely had time for so the idea of starting another one was rather ridiculous. “It’s been a very draining day and I’m really tired, so if you don’t mind . . .”

  Duncan nodded, finished off his drink, slid off his stool, and headed for the door. I followed and watched as he took a few seconds to scan the street outside before turning back to me. “I know this has been hard on you. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Give me your cell phone.”

  “What? Why?” The sudden change of topic and his request had me momentarily confused and frazzled.

  “Please, just give me your cell phone.”

  “Why? Do you think there’s evidence of criminal activities on it? Or are you afraid I’m going to use it to book my escape out of the country? Because I have to tell you, I have landlines, too,” I added, only half joking as I took the phone from my pocket and handed it to him.

  “I do want to look at your recent calls but I also want to give you my personal number.” I watched him as he scanned through my call log, which didn’t take long. I don’t have many people to call and I carry the phone mainly during work hours in case I have an emergency. When he was done weighing the pathetic dregs of my social life, he plugged his name into my contacts along with a number before handing the phone back to me. “Call me if anything occurs to you, if you need me for any reason, or if anything happens, okay?”

  I nodded, both bemused and amused. Apparently my expression showed that because Duncan cocked his head at me and said, “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  He scrutinized me for a few seconds and I made a concerted effort to shift my facial expression to neutral. “Make sure you lock up behind me,” he said finally.

  “Trust me, I will.”

  He stepped outside and stopped just beyond the stoop, waiting for me to close the door and throw the locks. Once I had, he turned and walked away, leaving me with an oddly hollow feeling I wasn’t sure was real.

  I busied myself turning off the bar lights before heading upstairs. By the time I showered and got ready for bed, I felt wired and tense. Sleep seemed unlikely but ever the optimist, I turned out my bedroom light and slipped between the sheets. The darkness felt heavy around me, a weight I could actually feel. I tossed and turned for an interminable amount of time, hearing odd sounds and seeing movements in the shadows that might have been real or creations of my synesthetic mind. Frustrated, I punched the mattress, sat up, and started to reach for the light. But as my hand touched the switch, I had a sudden urge to look out my window and parted my drapes just enough to take a peek at the street below. My bedroom is located on the side of the building overlooking the street that connects with the alley, and for a few seconds I stared at that intersection, wondering what had happened there with Ginny last night while I slept, oblivious.

  Something caught my eye and when I looked that way I saw movement inside a car parked across the street off to the left, near the entrance to the alley. My hackles rose; then a face I recognized appeared in the car window.

  I pulled back and sat there a moment, contemplating what I’d seen. Then I settled back into my bed and closed my eyes.

  Though I didn’t know if he was out there to watch the crime scene, or to watch me because I was a suspect, it didn’t matter. Knowing Duncan Albright was nearby allowed me to finally drift off to sleep.

  Chapter 16

  I slept until just before nine the next morning and the first thing I did was look out my bedroom window to see if Duncan was still there. There was a police car parked in the same spot but the officer standing outside it wasn’t Duncan. There was also a news van parked out there, which convinced me to stay inside. I got out of bed, turned on the coffeepot, and grabbed a bagel out of the bread box. That’s when I was reminded of my missing knife collection. By now it was probably sitting bagged and tagged in an evidence locker somewhere. I made do with one of my regular silverware knives and settled in to eat with the Capone book I’d found, my laptop, and a cup of hot coffee.

  The first thing I did was check the local news on my laptop. Ginny’s murder was top-of-the-page news, but the article wasn’t as long as I expected. It was basic information: the location where the
body was found and the fact that the victim was a successful Realtor named Ginny Rifkin. That’s probably all the information that the cops were willing to release to the media by the time things went to press.

  The article made no mention of any specific suspects, nor did it reveal the cause of death. All that would come later, after the autopsy was done and the police had a little more time to investigate. And if what happened when my father was murdered was typical, the story would be front-page news for a day or three, maybe a week if there were any breaks, and then it would disappear to make room for more current events—a sad commentary on the ever-moving machine of life.

  When I finished with the news, I took out the e-mail Ginny had written to my father. Then I spent the next half hour on my laptop, exploring the Internet sites listed in the e-mail. It was more of the same information the book covered: theories, rumors, and speculations about Capone’s life, motivations, actions, and secrets. And there were plenty of secrets surrounding the man: gangsters, greed, murder, and corruption leading to rumors about bastard offspring, underground bootlegging tunnels, hidden caches of cash and booze, and a quirky set of mob-related morals.

  By the time I finished perusing the various Web sites, it was after ten, so I dressed, contained my curls in a hair clip, brushed my teeth, threw on some mascara and lipstick, and headed down to the bar to begin my preparations for the day. I saw Debra hurrying up the sidewalk toward the door carrying a tray of whatever baked goods she was bringing. I swear the woman is a hybrid mix of Betty Crocker and Ann Landers. Two men—one with a camera and the other with a microphone—were hot on her heels and seeing that her hands were full, I hurried over to unlock and open the door for her. The second she stepped inside I slammed the door closed, just as the reporter started firing questions.

  “Sheesh, quite the gauntlet,” Debra said, walking over and setting her tray of goodies on the bar. She grabbed a bar towel and used it to dab at the beads of sweat on her face. The strangely hot weather was continuing and the day was promising to be a real scorcher. “I brought carrot cupcakes today,” she said, tossing her towel into the hamper behind the bar while I wondered how she found the time.