Murder on the Rocks

by Allyson K. Abbott

  “Remind me before you go home today and I’ll reimburse you for them,” I said.

  Debra went back behind the bar and tossed her purse and keys onto a shelf at the far end. I started to take the knives into the kitchen so I could get going on the necessary prep work when Duncan said, “Hold on a sec. Debra, why did you knock on the front door just now? Your bag wasn’t that cumbersome and Mack said you have a key to the place. And Marty hasn’t changed anything but the back door so far.”

  Debra gave him a wincing smile before giving me an apologetic look. “Mack did give me a key some months ago, not long after her father died. But somehow I managed to misplace one entire half of my key ring. I had one of those double-ended deals where you can put some keys on one end and other keys on the other end and split the ring in half. One of my boys gave it to me for Christmas last year. I didn’t really need anything so fancy but I didn’t want to disappoint my son, who thought it was very cool. I actually came up with a good use for it. We don’t have a garage, so I put my house key, the bar key, and one of my car keys on one ring, and then I put a second car key on the other ring. That way in the winter I could start the car with the single key ring, get out, lock the car with the second key, and have all my other keys with me while the car warmed up.

  “Anyway, somehow I lost the end that had all my keys on it, leaving me with just the single car key ring.”

  “When did you first realize you’d lost it?” Duncan asked.

  “It was toward the end of the winter, March I think. I worked my usual shift here and when I went to leave I dug around in my purse for my keys and all I could find was the single car key end of the ring. I thought the other half was probably buried at the bottom of my purse and since I had the ability to drive home, I did so, figuring I’d look for it later. But when I got home I dumped everything out of my purse and the other half of the ring wasn’t there. I searched the house and my car but I never did find it. Eventually I had new copies made of my house and car keys. As for the bar key, I’ve never needed it because either Pete or Mack is always here in the morning to let me in.”

  Duncan shot me a look and I gave myself a mental slap for not realizing that Debra had been knocking at the front door whenever she arrived before or after Pete. Because she loved to bake and was always bringing in goodies, I’d assumed her reason for knocking was because she had her hands full.

  “I’m sorry, Mack,” Debra said. “I guess I should have told you about the key a long time ago but to be honest, I was embarrassed that I’d lost it and didn’t want to mention it. Most days I get here before Pete and just wait until he shows up so I can come in with him.”

  Duncan pointed to the shelf where Debra had thrown her purse and keys moments ago. “Is that where you normally keep your purse?” he asked her.

  “Yeah,” she said with a shrug.

  Duncan walked around the outside of the bar until he reached the end with the shelf in question. He moved a stool back away from the bar, stepped up on the footrest, and reached over the bar, grabbing Debra’s purse and then her keys from the shelf where she’d left them. “You might want to rethink that,” he said, stepping down and holding both items aloft.

  Duncan returned the purse and keys to the shelf and then walked back over to me, steering me into the kitchen. “I think it’s safe to assume that if someone swiped Debra’s keys and no one has stolen her car or broken into her house, that it was the bar key they were after,” he said as soon as we were behind the closed kitchen door.

  “Maybe she just lost them,” I said. “Maybe you’re making more of this than it really is.”

  “I don’t think so. It makes sense and might explain all the things that have been happening to you lately. If someone has a key to the place, they could get in anytime they wanted. Fortunately for you the door to your apartment has a dead bolt on the other side, limiting access up there. But with Debra’s key to the outside doors, someone would have access to the whole place. And given where Debra keeps her purse, any one of your customers or staff members could have easily swiped those missing keys.”

  His implication and the ramifications it carried for Gary were clear. He would have had ample access to the area where Debra kept her purse and keys. “You’re still thinking Gary is the most likely culprit, aren’t you?”

  Duncan narrowed his eyes in thought. “He’s still at the top of my list,” he said, “and the fact that he has disappeared is damning. But I’m keeping an open mind because the one thing this key business has done is broaden our pool of suspects significantly. At this point I can’t rule anyone out.”

  Chapter 17

  Marty had just finished changing the locks on the front door so I had the privilege of throwing the new dead bolt for the first time at eleven sharp. It moved with silent ease and I flipped the closed sign over. We were officially open for business.

  There were a handful of folks waiting outside, all of them hovering around the Signoriello brothers, who were enjoying their fifteen minutes of fame with the TV reporter. I shuddered to think what they might have said and was relieved when they broke away and came inside.

  The cameraman and reporter came in, too, and they hovered in a corner talking to one another and pointing at things in the bar.

  “Looks like you’re the hot news spot in town this weekend,” Frank said, sitting down at a table.

  “Ought to be good for business,” Joe said, settling into the chair across from his brother.

  “We’re going to switch things up a bit today,” Frank said. “Just in case we get arrested or something. I’d hate to spend my last days in jail wishing I’d tried one of those Appletini drinks the young folks seem to be so crazy about these days. So bring me one of those with a BLT, please.”

  “Good choice,” I said.

  “I’ll take the BLT, too,” Joe said. “But make my drink something Italian.”

  I thought for a second and said, “Got it. One Italian Delight coming up.”

  Back behind the bar I told Duncan what drinks I needed and then, noticing how the news crew was watching my every move, I added, “Those TV people make me nervous but I don’t suppose I can make them leave.”

  “Why do they make you nervous?”

  “I don’t know. They just do.”

  “There’s a secret to dealing with the TV types,” Duncan said. “Give them something to take away and they’ll leave, even if it isn’t quite what they came for.” He reached under the bar and grabbed the drink bible, flipping it open. “I’ll show you what I mean,” he said. “Let me make these drinks.” He took a moment to read both recipes, tossed the book back beneath the bar, and grabbed a cocktail shaker. He scooped it half full of ice and then proceeded to make the first drink by describing what he was doing to a rap beat.

  “To make an Appletini, you must not be a weenie, an ounce and a half of vodka, will knock you off your rocka, add an ounce of apple schnapps, and you’ve got a drink that’s tops.” With that he shook and strained the Appletini into a glass, added a slice of apple for a garnish, and set it on the bar with a flourish. There was some applause and I noticed that the reporter was pointing toward the bar and giving his cameraman instructions. The camera went up and I saw a small light come on, letting me know the film was rolling.

  Duncan saw it too, and after taking a bow he scooped ice into a second cocktail shaker, grabbed a bottle, and started on the next drink. “Next we have an Italian Delight, and this one has to be made just right. Start with an ounce of Amaretto, you won’t find this drink in the ghetto, half an ounce of orange juice, and you get a color that looks like puce. Now add an ounce and a half of cream, and shake it all up ’til the babies scream.” As he strained Joe’s drink into a martini glass and topped it off with a cherry, half the bar cheered and clapped. Moments later the TV crew left with smiles on their faces.

  “That will make for a fun clip on the news tonight,” Duncan said. “Everyone will see what a happening place this is and want to come in.�
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  “You’re pretty full of yourself,” I said with a laugh. “What makes you think people would want to see you do that again?”

  “Oh, come on. I’m charming. Admit it.” With that he scooped up the two drinks and delivered them to Joe and Frank.

  I went back into the kitchen to fix the brothers’ sandwiches, and when I brought them out front I saw Cora come in carrying her laptop. She settled in at a table with her usual glass of chardonnay and ordered a veggie pizza. Ten minutes later, the Signoriello brothers moved and joined her. Within an hour Tad and Kevin dropped in, too, and Tad pushed a second table up to Cora’s and settled in. Kevin arrived wearing his overalls and still in his work clothes, an unusual departure from his norm. He walked up to the bar to order a drink and when I waited on him I experienced an odd synesthetic reaction: a faint humming sound that seemed to oscillate. It was a distinct sound and I was sure I’d never heard it around Kevin before, but I had heard it elsewhere. It was one of the first sounds I’d heard in the alley that morning when I stumbled across Ginny’s body.

  Kevin took his drink and headed for the table where Tad was, exchanging polite greetings with the brothers and Cora. I could tell this core group of regular customers was busy cooking up something and my curiosity was aroused. But whenever I walked by and tried to eavesdrop on their conversations, they grew quiet.

  Along with my regulars there were plenty of other customers, some of whom I’d seen before though they weren’t what I would call regulars, and a fair number of unknowns, which is typical for a Saturday. By noon the place was packed and it was all we could do to keep up with the food and drink orders. The big draw was still Ginny’s murder, and while I couldn’t discern what my regulars were discussing, the rest of the place was abuzz on the topic. We even had several tables occupied by out-of-town visitors who came armed with their cameras to take shots of the notorious Milwaukee bar that was now associated with two murders.

  Also among my customers were others who popped in but didn’t stay: police officers and detectives who ordered food and coffee to go. I began to think Duncan had arranged for this ongoing parade of law enforcement to help him keep an eye on me now that I was linked to the murder weapon, but around two o’clock in the afternoon he offered up another explanation.

  “Your coffee is a big hit with the troops,” he said. “Cops do love their coffee and when you have a decent food menu to balance it out, well . . . let’s just say I’m pretty sure cops are going to be an ongoing part of your life for the foreseeable future.”

  Given the reason Duncan and the other cops had been around to discover my coffee in the first place, I didn’t find this comment all that reassuring even though I think he meant it to be so. But business was business, and the more I had of it the more money I made. So if turning my place into a cop bar was what it took, so be it. While I had feared the cops’ presence might be intimidating to my other customers, it had the exact opposite effect. The cops were hailed by most as if they were celebrities, part and parcel of the reality TV-type drama unfolding at my bar. And Duncan must have schooled his colleagues well because not a one of them let on that they knew him outside of the bar.

  After an hour or so of conversation, my group of regulars had grown like an amoeba, engulfing a group of people at one end of the bar who were discussing Ginny’s murder—speculating on motive, evidence, and suspects. This growing group drew pictures on napkins and the attention of other customers. The more they talked, the bigger the group became as other curious patrons joined in to hear all the latest scuttlebutt about the murder. Even some of the cops who dropped in participated at times.

  It wasn’t typical bar talk by any means, but I was just so relieved to see all of my regular customers here after last night’s interrogations that I didn’t care. Because Duncan seemed particularly interested in the discussions taking place at the bar around my group of regulars, I sent Pete out to help Debra wait on tables while Duncan and I took over behind the bar. Helmut arrived just before noon to take over the kitchen duties. He used to work a twelve-hour shift on Saturdays, manning the kitchen from noon to midnight. But in the past few years his age—and some nagging from his wife—made the long hours difficult so he and my father had worked out a deal. Nowadays Helmut worked from noon to five on Saturdays and I took over the food prep after that. I followed him into the kitchen and filled him in on Duncan’s true identity and reason for being here.

  “I know,” Helmut said, looking at me as if I were a dumb child. “You two were pretty obvious back here last night with your little chats. I might be old but I ain’t stupid and I ain’t deaf.”

  So much for the great undercover operation.

  For the next three hours we stayed full and busy. It became apparent that Duncan had paid attention last night and was a quick learner. He not only handled the beer and wine orders with ease, he mixed a number of basic drinks along with a few of the slightly more complicated ones. Once or twice he consulted the bible, but when he got an order for a Slippery Nipple he came to me for help with a salacious wink that made me wonder if he really needed assistance or just wanted to play loose with the inference.

  As time wore on he began to develop a flair of his own—something all bartenders do if they are at it for any length of time—using flamboyant arm movements, tossing the occasional glass or bottle in the air, and coming up with more of his rap recipes.

  Somewhere around three in the afternoon things slowed down and we finally had a chance to take a breather. Riley Quinn popped over for lunch and sat at the end of the bar opposite the larger group. Riley hires high school kids to work the store on the weekends, giving him a little more freedom to get away for short periods of time, so he tends to pop in for lunch and dinner on those days.

  “Phew, it’s been crazy,” he said to me. “I had a lot of business through the store. It looks like you’ve been busy, too.”

  “We have been.”

  “I’m glad, though I don’t suppose it’s politically correct to say so, is it?” he said, lowering his voice. “I feel like we’re benefitting from Ginny’s death.”

  “I know,” I agreed. “On the one hand I feel devastated about what’s happened, but the uptick in business it seems to have triggered is something I desperately needed.”

  He gave me his order and then said, “Just how are you doing, Mack? Financially, I mean. Because if you need help with anything, you know all you have to do is ask.”

  “Thanks, but I’m doing okay. I won’t be retiring to the Bahamas anytime soon, but I’m squeaking by.”

  “Good. How is the investigation coming along? Have you heard anything? I talked a little with that TV reporter that was hovering out front this morning to see if he knew anything, but I think he was hoping to get info from me. Have the cops talked to you again today? I thought I saw a few of them coming into the bar earlier but they left with food so I wasn’t sure if they were here to investigate or eat lunch.”

  I laughed. “A little of both, I think. They have someone posted outside watching the alley and there were some crime techs here earlier who said they were still processing out there for clues. But no one has talked to me personally. I hope they clear out of there soon because I had to have Billy take my trash with him last night and toss it in a Dumpster on his way home.”

  “Think he’ll take mine, too?”

  I smiled and shrugged. “Have the cops been over to your store again today?”

  Riley shook his head. “I talked to them yesterday but no one has been back since then as far as I know, though I’ve spent the better part of my day down in that damned basement cleaning. However, I do think the cops watching the alley are keeping a close eye on who comes and goes to each of our establishments.” He smiled and winked. “It’s made some of my high school workers a tad nervous.”

  I stepped out from behind the bar and moved to Riley’s side. “I’m nervous, too,” I said, leaning in closer and dropping my voice to just above a whisper. “One of t
he cops I talked to thought Ginny’s murder might be connected to my father’s. But I can’t find any connections except some old e-mails and a book. Did Dad ever mention Al Capone to you?”

  Riley was taking a sip when I asked and he coughed a laugh into his drink. “Al Capone?” he sputtered, dabbing at his chin with a napkin. “What on earth does Al Capone have to do with any of this?”

  “I don’t know. Just a silly idea I had. It’s pretty far-fetched. Forget I asked.”

  Riley looked at me, concern marking his face. “This is all starting to get to you, isn’t it?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t want to believe that the two murders are connected. When I start thinking along those lines, it’s hard not to wonder if I’ll be next. It’s scary, Riley. I don’t want to think that one of my employees or customers could be a killer, but it’s certainly starting to look that way.”

  Riley sandwiched one of my hands between his and patted it reassuringly. I caught a faint whiff of that musty smell again and saw white dust on his arms and shoulders. A millisecond later I felt the heavy, cloying sensation on the back of my neck.

  “Maybe you should think about closing down for a few days,” Riley said. “Just until the cops can figure this thing out. You could stay at my place if you want. It isn’t fancy but I do have a spare bedroom with clean sheets.”

  “Thanks, but I can’t afford to shut down, Riley. I’m getting by, but not by much. I still haven’t caught up from being closed for three days during that fumigation thing when the cockroaches showed up.” I sighed, pulled my hand back, and laid it on his shoulder. “I appreciate your concern, and if things get worse, I might take you up on your offer. But for now I’m going to hang in here. I’m taking precautions and staying smart.” I leaned down even closer and whispered in his ear, “Right now it looks like Gary may have been the culprit. I fired him last night and now he’s in the wind, but I’m hoping the cops will find him soon and put an end to this nightmare.”