I had to give Duncan credit; he sure knew how to sober up a moment. And sober is something you don’t find all that often in a bar.
The rest of the night stayed busy but largely uneventful. Duncan spent most of his time behind the bar expanding his repertoire of drinks. At one point he had a group of people I suspect were mostly off-duty cops lined up at the bar, firing fancy drink orders at him to see if he could make them without looking up the recipes or asking for help. There was lots of laughing, a few raunchy jokes, and the occasional drink disaster, all of which attracted some of the other patrons to the bar group. Duncan took it all in good stead, doing a remarkable job with the drinks, and the atmosphere stayed partylike most of the night. Best of all, the drink orders were coming fast and furious and that made me happy. My profit margin on alcohol is much bigger than it is for the food.
By the time closing came around, I was exhausted but happy. It had been a good night in terms of money, with a total take for the day that was several hundred dollars above my norm. While these higher numbers were a welcome sight, I also knew they were likely temporary, a fleeting uptick because of the hype surrounding Ginny’s murder. I began to think that having the local cops patronizing my bar might not be such a bad thing after all. From what I know about cops after talking to other bar owners at meetings and conventions, they tend to choose a bar to call home and they are religiously good customers who eat, drink, and tip well. Plus there was the safety factor, which was more important to me now than ever. I was going to have to find a new bouncer and bartender to replace Gary and wondered if that was something Duncan could help with.
Our after-closing cleanup was a normal one, no talk of murder, suspects, interrogations, or alibis, and Duncan chipped in and worked alongside the others. He seemed to have established an easy camaraderie with the staff despite their knowledge of his alternate agenda, and for a little while even I forgot his real reason for being there.
Once the cleanup was done and the regular staff left, Duncan and I settled in at the bar with a couple of beers.
“I had fun tonight,” Duncan said. “I can see why you love what you do here. People get relaxed and they enjoy themselves, and they talk more. It’s amazing what some of them will tell you.”
“It has its moments,” I agreed. “Some nights you’re part confidante, part shrink, part new best friend, part advisor. . . . It’s a great way to get to know people.”
“That it is.”
“Did you learn anything helpful to the case?”
“Only that Cora, Kevin, Tad, and the Signoriello brothers seem determined to solve it . . . or at least point the finger away from themselves.”
“They do seem to be enjoying their roles as armchair detectives.”
“You mean bar stool detectives.”
I smiled. “Yes, I guess that would be a more accurate descriptor. They came up with a likely suspect, you know.”
“Did they?”
“They did. It was me.” I looked over at Duncan as I said this and watched his face carefully.
He looked back at me with a serious expression. “That’s understandable. The evidence definitely points toward you.”
“They all believe I’m innocent. Do you?”
We stared at one another, his eyes probing mine for what seemed a long time before he said, “I do, and it’s not just because I like you.”
“Why then?”
“Because I know you’re not stupid. If you had killed Ginny you would have done a better job of moving the body and disposing of the weapon. And while I do believe you harbored resentment toward Ginny for taking away some of your father’s time and attention, I don’t believe you resented her enough to kill her. She made your father happy and that meant more to you than your own emotional deficit. It’s clear that you were very close to your father and loved him a lot. Not for a moment do I think you had anything to do with his death, and my gut keeps telling me these two deaths are connected, though I confess I’m leaning less that way with each passing day. I’ve got suspects and motives aplenty when it comes to Ginny, but hardly any with your father.”
“I know. I’ve been trying to think up a reason why anyone would kill him and there aren’t any. Everyone who knew my father loved him. And that makes me think his killer had to have been a stranger. But if so, what was the motive?”
“I still think robbery is a likely one. Your father was just savvy enough to go to the alley door with a gun and keep whoever it was from bluffing or shoving their way in. Unfortunately, his efforts got him shot and I’m guessing that scared away whoever was there.”
I shook my head, frowned, and took another drink of my beer. “I still say he wouldn’t have opened up the alley door at that time of night. He was always very conscious of my safety.”
“What if he heard someone yelling for help? Maybe the perpetrators fooled him into opening the door by having someone, a girl maybe, yell for help. Think he would have opened it then, taking the gun with him for protection?”
That was the first time anyone had suggested such a scenario and when I played it out in my mind, it made sense. My father would have responded to calls for help, but he also would have been smart enough to take the gun with him. Because of the noise I was making in the kitchen, I might not have heard the commotion my father did. Reluctantly, sadly, I nodded. “That’s a possibility,” I admitted. “And a scary one, because it means the people who did it are still out there.”
“Which is why I wanted you to get those locks changed sooner rather than later.”
“Thank you for that,” I said a bit grudgingly. “And that reminds me, I need to find a replacement for Gary. Know of any good bouncers looking for work who can also bartend?”
“I’ll ask around,” he said. “Someone at the station might be able to give me a lead.”
“Thanks.” I finished my beer and slid off my stool to go toss the bottle into the trash behind the bar.
Duncan took the cue, drained his, and handed me his empty. “So tomorrow you don’t open until five?”
“That’s right. Are you coming back?”
“Yeah, if it’s okay with you.”
“You mean I have a choice?”
“Of course,” he said, looking a little wounded. “I don’t have to come back, but if any of your regulars from the suspect list come in—and based on their discussions today I think several of them will—I’d like to be here to eavesdrop or participate.”
“You’re welcome to come back if you want, and to be honest, I could use the help with Gary gone.”
“I’m flattered you think I can handle it.”
I smiled at him. “You’ve caught on quite fast. In fact, I think you have a knack for the work. Even Billy said so.”
“Did he now?”
“He did. And some of my customers are quite taken with you, particularly Cora. You should ask her out. Behind that brazen, nerdy, flirty façade of hers, she’s really a fun person.”
“Nah, she’s not my type.”
“No? Then what is your type?”
We stared at one another until he broke into a grin and headed for the door. “You need to make sure you lock this place up tight tonight, you hear?” he said over his shoulder.
“I will. I promise.”
I followed him to the main entrance, key in hand. He paused after opening the door and looked back at me as if he wanted to say something, but either I read the action wrong or he changed his mind because after a few seconds he turned and stepped outside, shutting the door behind him. He stood by a front window and watched me until I had engaged both of the locks. Then he yelled to me through the glass.
“You are.”
“I am what?” I yelled back.
“My type.” And with that he turned and disappeared down the sidewalk.
I smiled, feeling as giddy as a crushing schoolgirl as I went around and turned out most of the lights in the bar, leaving a couple of wall sconces on in the back hallway. I checked the
alley door to make sure it was locked and thought about locking my office door, but didn’t. With all the other doors locked and the place empty, I didn’t think it necessary. But I did make sure the door at the base of the stairs to my apartment was locked when I headed up, both the key lock and the dead bolt.
I showered and headed for bed, feeling exhausted on the heels of a very busy day and very little sleep the night before. After a moment’s hesitation, I turned out all the lights. The lock-change thing had given me a new sense of security, as did the sight of Duncan once again sitting in his car, parked along the street near the entrance to the alley. It didn’t matter if he was there to keep an eye on me because he thought I was a suspect or because he thought I might be in danger. Just knowing he was there filled me with a warm sense of security that I hoped was genuine, and not just a synesthetic impostor.
Chapter 23
Islept like the proverbial baby and awoke the next morning a little after eleven. After pouring my coffee, I decided to forgo the morning news and sat at the table with the Capone book and my laptop instead. Ginny’s e-mail to my father had listed several titles that I figured I’d have to go to the library to find, so after skimming a few more Web sites about Capone, I threw on some clothes and escaped from the apartment around noon to treat myself to brunch at a little café that just happened to be close to the Milwaukee Public Library. It was within easy walking distance and the day was a pleasant one, cloudy with a strong, cool breeze, closer to typical for this time of year though still unusually warm.
I’d walked several blocks before I remembered Duncan telling me that someone would be watching me all the time. Curious, I stopped and turned suddenly, scanning the street behind me. Sure enough, a man wearing blue jeans, a T-shirt, and a baseball cap was walking down the sidewalk behind me. He was a good twenty or thirty feet back, but my sudden stop and turn hadn’t given him any time to adjust. For a second he faltered in his step, as if debating a turnaround, and then he kept on walking. There weren’t any good places for him to dodge into because it was Sunday and a lot of the businesses in the area were closed. He seemed to realize this and kept on walking, going right past me. I watched him turn the corner, wondering if I’d misidentified him. But when I continued on my way and reached the corner myself, I saw him huddled in a doorway a little ways from where I stood.
I smiled, walked up to him and said, “Are you the person assigned to follow me today?”
He shook his head and made a face like he was about to deny it and call me crazy, but at the last second he sighed and said, “Yeah, busted.”
“You didn’t have to be so cagey about it,” I told him, smiling. “Duncan Albright told me he’d have someone watching me.”
“Hmph, would have been nice if he’d told me that you knew.” He reached up and adjusted his cap, giving me a clear look at his face. He had hazel eyes, a five o’clock shadow, and at the least a receding hairline, though I couldn’t tell for sure if it was that or if he was balding. I pegged him as mid- to late thirties. He held a hand out to me and said, “Name’s Brian Gold.”
I took his hand and shook it, an action that triggered a sweet, citrus taste in my mouth. “Mack Dalton,” I said. “But I’m guessing you already knew that.”
He nodded and smiled.
“Let me save you some trouble, Brian, and give you my itinerary for the day.” I filled him in on my plans to have lunch and then hit up the library before heading back to my bar in time to prep for my five o’clock opening. “You’re welcome to join me if you like,” I told him.
“No, thanks,” he said. “But I will tag along behind you. Have to. Sorry.” He shrugged apologetically.
“No need to apologize. You are just doing your job. It was a pleasure to meet you.” With that, I turned my back on him and continued on my way, knowing he was meandering along behind me. I caught sight of his reflection once or twice in windows I passed, and I could hear the faint murmur of his voice as he talked on his cell phone. When I arrived at the café, he took up a post across the street, leaning against a building. He was there for only five minutes or so before someone came along in a gray sedan and picked him up.
I was puzzled by the fact that no one else got out of the car to take his place. I ordered a mushroom and cheese omelet with a mimosa to drink, and I scanned the street outside while I waited for my food, searching for Brian’s replacement. If there was one, I couldn’t see him anywhere, though I continued to search while I ate. Since I was both hungry and aware of the time, I made fast work of the omelet, paid my tab, and headed for the library, getting there just after one.
Ginny’s e-mail listed five books in total but I was only able to find three of them on the shelves. I settled in and skimmed through the chapter headings and some of the pages, looking for anything new or different from the information I’d found in the book at home and on the Web sites I’d visited. The first two didn’t offer up anything exciting, but the author of the third book put forth a new theory I hadn’t run across before, that Capone might have hidden a stash of gold in one of the many buildings in Milwaukee he frequented as a way of hiding income from the taxmen. There was little in the way of solid facts to support this notion, just some anecdotal evidence and copies of handwritten letters that contained wording vague enough to be interpreted multiple ways. But one thing that did catch my eye was the author’s contention that the treasure had most likely been hidden in one of four buildings, an idea he’d come to after reading some other correspondence that referenced discussions between Capone and several Milwaukee bar owners who were part of his bootlegging ring. One of the buildings he named was mine, though the author also admitted that this information amounted to little more than rumor and hearsay. Intrigued, I set the books aside so I could check them out later and take them home for a more thorough reading. Then I headed for the help desk to see if I could find the other two books from Ginny’s list.
When I rattled off both titles to the librarian behind the counter, she said, “Those aren’t on the regular shelves because they’re collections of historical papers that have to be signed out and viewed here in the library. They can’t be checked out. Would you like to look at them here?”
“Yes, please,” I told her, glancing at my watch. It was almost two o’clock already. I mumbled a curse under my breath, wishing I’d known about the papers sooner because I wouldn’t have wasted my time with books I could check out. Now that I knew, I’d have to make the best of the time I had left. The librarian disappeared into a back room, returning a minute later with two bound collections.
“Happy reading,” she said with a smile. She set the binders on the counter and pushed a clipboard toward me. “Please fill in your name and the current time in the check-out box. And make sure the time gets filled in when you return them and that someone signs off on it.”
I nodded my understanding and slid the clipboard around to do as she instructed. Then I froze. There on the sheet, on the line above the first empty space, was the name of the last person who had signed out the collections, and not only was it a name I knew, it was someone on Duncan Albright’s current list of suspects.
Chapter 24
I signed my name and carried the binders to a table. For the next hour or so I sifted through hundreds of pieces of paper: personal and business letters, bills of lading, old news articles, scribbled notes, written statements taken by cops who questioned people suspected of being involved with Capone’s activities. It was fascinating stuff, peppered with occasional references to caches of gold and money hidden away in parts of the city. While nothing pointed directly to any one building, there were obscure references to certain landmarks that made it easy to see how one might think my building could have been one of Capone’s secret haunts.
When I was done, I grabbed my cell phone and called Duncan. “What’s up?” he answered. His voice sounded sleepy and the chocolate taste came to me in a rush: rich and sweet, making me long for more. I pictured him in my mind loungin
g around in bed, his hair mussed, his eyes still carrying hints of sleep. “Did you find something in your stack of papers there?” he asked.
My image of him lounging in bed burst and my synesthetic mind conjured up a snowfall of colored confetti. Shocked, I looked around the library, trying to blink past the confetti, searching for his face. Then I realized he might be getting information from someone else so I started looking for anyone who was looking at me. “I did,” I told him, my eyes scanning the room. “I discovered something you might find interesting. Where are you?”
“Just outside the library. I’m about to relieve the gal who has been watching you since you made Brian.”
A woman. For some reason I’d assumed the person watching me would be a man. Now I realized how narrow-minded and biased that assumption had been. Lesson learned.
“I’ll be right in,” Duncan said. I disconnected the call and waited. It didn’t take long. Duncan came strolling toward me about a minute later. Turned out my image of him in bed hadn’t been far off. His eyelids were puffy with sleep, the faint remnant of a facial crease arced across his right cheek, his chin bore the stubble of a day’s worth of growth, and there was an adorable cowlick in his hair above his right ear. In contrast, his shirt and khakis were clean and wrinkle-free, and I caught a whiff of some kind of soap, which triggered an odd, feathery sensation on my legs and arms.
I looked down at my wrinkled capris and grubby T-shirt and immediately felt self-conscious. “Hi,” I said, folding my arms over my chest to hide the rather large pinkish stain in the middle of my shirt. “You look tired.”
“I am a bit. I’m not used to bar hours.”
“And then some,” I said. “I saw you parked out front last night.”
He shrugged. “Someone needed to watch the area to see if anyone returned to the scene and there wasn’t anyone else available until morning. I hope it didn’t bother you that I was out there.”
Murder on the Rocks Page 22
