by F J messina
Tee scrunched her face. “What look?”
“The look she’d have if I told her that I’d moved in with Brad, with any man, before we got married.”
Tee grabbed an empty bowl and a box of Honey Nut Cheerios. She took a seat at the tiny kitchen table. “How would she know?”
Sonia grabbed an empty bowl as well. “Oh, she’d know. Trust me, somehow, she’d know. Look, I like to think of myself as a modern woman. I’m independent. I have my own life. I have a good job, my own business. But that doesn’t wash away all those years of Catholic upbringing, the years with the nuns in elementary and middle school, being dragged to confession once a month and church every Sunday.” Tee quietly chomped on her Cheerios as Sonia continued. “And honestly, I’m not sure I want to leave all that behind. It’s just who I am.”
Tee swallowed and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “So, you’re still going to mass every Sunday?”
Sonia stopped. “No. I guess I’ve let that slide for now. But still, there’s a part of me that just balks at moving in with Brad before we’re married.” A memory raced across Sonia’s mind, the memory of being left at the altar by the first man she’d been engaged to, John Eckel. She almost said something about that to Tee. Instead, she poured milk over the Cheerios in her own bowl. “And besides, with Brad out of town so much, I’m not sure it would be all that different.”
Tee finished another bite and swallowed again. “So, you and Brad just─”
“Enough.” Sonia held her hand up, rolling her eyes. “What Brad and I do is none of your business. Now finish your cereal and pour us some coffee. We’re not going to Magee’s this morning. You’ve got to get on the phone and track down Rasmussen’s sister, and I’ve got a long drive out to see Ed Rollins. That assumes, of course, I can get Mason Holiday to set up a meeting with him on a Saturday.”
Tee began her first day as a temporary professional private investigator by calling Brad and asking him to use his old NCIS connections to find out the name and location of Victor Rasmussen’s sister. By eleven o’clock, she was in her Chevy Caprice, on her way to see Carla Lombardi in a bar on South Mill Street. Not knowing her way around Lexington, she had to use her GPS to locate it. She was pleased to find a parking spot right in front of the place.
The gray, rainy day matched the gloom inside McCullen’s Irish Bar when Tee stepped inside just after eleven-fifteen. The green façade, set into a two-story, brick building, had made it obvious that the owners were serious about creating a true Gaelic setting. Lots of wood and brass, kegs mounted on the wall, and multiple dart boards, all played their part as well.
Tee took a moment to orient herself, then stepped to the bar and took a seat. The woman behind the bar─hefty, blonde, mid-fifties or older─walked up to her, wiping her hands on a bar towel. There was no smile on her face when she said, “You going to show me some proof you’re old enough to sit at this bar at eleven in the morning?”
Tee was caught off guard. She’d been in plenty of bars before. She’d even played in bars with her old band, The Displaced Souls. But those were always hangouts for people just old enough to be there, or able to pass for being old enough. McCullen ’s was not that kind of place.
“Well, you got proof of age or don’t you girl? I ain’t got all day to wait. Afternoon crowd comes in early on a Saturday. I got to be ready.”
Tee reached in her back pocket and took out a small wallet. All it contained were her license, AAA card, insurance card, and about thirteen dollars. She showed the license to the bartender, who all but grabbed it out of her hand. The woman gave Tee and the license a good looking-over.
“Teresa Vitale. Italian, right?” She’d pronounced it Vy-tăl.
“Vi-tah-lay,” Tee replied. “Not like the basketball announcer. The name has an accent on the “ah,” ends in a long “a.” She had the correction down to an art form.
“Yeah, yeah.” The woman handed the license back to Tee. “I used to be married to one, you know. Anthony Lombardi. You know him?”
Tee was struggling to not back away from the woman and her harsh tone. She shook her head sharply and frowned. “Don’t know him. I’m not from around here.”
The bartender rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and twisted her lips. “What can I get you, girl?”
“Well, I was wondering─”
“I meant, what are you drinking? This ain’t no library. You come in here, you drink. Now, what can I get you?”
Tee sat up straight. “A beer. Give me a Rhinegeist Cougar.”
The bartender stepped back shaking her head. “You’re not from around here is right. Listen, girl, that’s a Cincinnati beer, local, actually a golden ale. I used to live up there. Now, does this look like some German beer garden?” She squinted her eyes and leaned over the edge of the bar. “No. It’s an Irish bar. In Lexington, Kentucky.” Her tone got even darker, as did the look on her face. “Oh, we’ve got Rhinegeist, boss man makes us carry it and we sell our share, but if you ask me, you walk into an Irish bar, you drink an Irish beer.” Her hand slapped the bar, “Guinness, Killian’s, Harp.” She balled up her bar towel and threw it down onto one of the coolers below the bar.
Tee was tempted to simply ask for a Bud, but she was pretty certain that would only make things worse. She took a deep breath, hoping to start over. “Listen, I didn’t really come in here for a drink. I’m looking for Carla Lombardi. I think I’m looking for you.”
The bartender froze. Tee could see her mind racing. The woman rubbed her hands together as she eased into her next question. “And why would you think I’m Carla Lombardi?”
Tee was trying her best to get on a level emotional playing field with the aggressive woman. Her voice had its own edge. “Well, I know Carla Lombardi works here and that she probably doesn’t look Italian. And didn’t you just say you’d been married to Anthony Lombardi? Now, I need to speak with Carla Lombardi, and I’m guessing you and she just happen to be the same person.”
Carla Lombardi seemed to lose a little steam. She stood silently for a moment then spoke in a softer tone. “Well, you’re right about that. I’m not Italian, I just married that piece of garbage.” She picked up a new bar towel and started wiping some glasses that were already dry. “And I’m not Irish. In fact, my grandfather came over from Denmark. We’re Danish.”
Tee lifted her eyebrows just a touch. “Rasmussen?”
Carla’s head tipped sharply. “How did you know that?” Her eyes locked with Tee’s brown eyes, eyes darker even than her sister’s.
Tee took a deep breath. “Actually, that’s why I was looking for you. I’m from Bluegrass Confidential Investigations and I have some questions about Victor Rasmussen, the guy who said he’s bringing out a new bourbon. I’m trying to find out something about his background with bourbon. You’re his sister, aren’t you?”
Carla let out a breath so heavy it was almost as if she had spit. “Half. I’m his half-sister.”
Tee didn’t say a word. Instead, she picked a red swizzle stick out of a small black, plastic holder and rolled it back and forth along the surface of the bar.
Carla must have sensed that Tee was waiting for more because she continued. “Our father, Carl Rasmussen, married my mother. They named me, their first child, after the bastard. And within two years he’d kicked her out and divorced her. Threw me out with her.”
Tee stopped rolling the swizzle. “I’m so sorry, that sounds rough.”
Carla’s face reddened. She stopped wiping. “And I don’t mean he just kicked me out of the house. What I mean is that he kicked me out of his life. I never saw the bastard again, except once, when I was around seven or so, my mom and I were walking around downtown and this fancy car happens to pull up right where we’re standing.” Carla’s eyes rose to the metal, patterned ceiling. “Out steps my father from one side of the car and his new wife from the other. She’s all dressed up real nice, so’s the old man. And she’s pregnant.” Carla shrugged. “I guess wi
th Victor.” She leaned over the bar, speaking softly, almost conspiratorially. “And you know what. I don’t even think he recognized my mother.” She gave her head a nasty shake. “If he did, he just totally ignored her . . . and me. Wouldn’t have even known it was him if my mother hadn’t started cursing under her breath. I forced her to tell me why. The bastard just kicked us out of his life like we were last week’s trash.” She turned and took a few steps down the bar, apparently doing some busywork as she pulled herself together.
Tee sat silently for a few moments. Then she asked, as gently as she could, “So, you never had any kind of relationship with your brother, I mean your half-brother, Victor?”
Carla walked back to where Tee was seated. Her lips took on a pout. “Nah. Heard his name. Know about him. Heard he’s been real successful in my father’s business. That’s about it.” She paused. “Why are you asking, anyway?”
Tee sensed she should be on guard. She spoke very carefully though trying to sound nonchalant. “Well, we’ve heard he’s going into the bourbon business and bringing out a real high-end product. We’re trying to find out a little about his background with bourbon production. We thought his sister might be able to tell us something.” She reached her hand behind her neck, through her thick black, shoulder-length hair, and scratched gently. “Looks like you really don’t have much to say about that, right?”
Carla’s left eye squinted. “Why don’t you just ask him?”
“Makes sense, right?” Tee gave Carla her warmest smile. “But you don’t ask the guy trying out for the basketball team if he’s any good, now do you? You ask around. We’ll be talking to him about everything as well, but we’d like to get some unbiased information from other folks who know him first. Now, that makes sense, too. Right?”
Carla paused before answering. “Look, I don’t really know anything about my brother. Can’t say I miss him. Can’t say I’ve got anything against him. He’s just not part of my life. Never has been.” She shrugged. “Guess I wish him the best. Actually, I’d like to say we’re both in the bourbon business.” She looked behind her at the display of whisky bottles that ran from one end of the bar to the other, then smiled a yellow smile. “But I sell a hell of a lot more scotch whisky than bourbon, as you can tell.” It was the first smile Tee had gotten out of her the whole time.
Tee tapped the bar twice with her knuckle. “Thanks for your time, Carla.” She was at a loss for anything else to say. “Good luck with your afternoon crowd.” She spun around on the barstool, slipped off and walked out the door. When she hit the damp but fresh air of South Upper Street, she took in a deep breath. It had been her first professional interview as a PI, and it had been a doozy.
12
Jet had gotten an earlier start than Tee. She’d called The Rasmussen Company, only to find out that her assumption was correct; Missy Charles didn’t work on Saturdays. Making up some story about being from out of town and needing to talk to the business manager of the company about some on-site emergency, Jet had managed to wangle a phone number for Missy out of the young woman who was manning the phones. At eight forty-five, she’d called Missy’s cellphone and asked for a meeting. Missy had told her that she was about to step onto the court at the Lexington Indoor Tennis Club and asked if the meeting could be put off until Monday. Without giving her much of an explanation, Jet had pressed and managed to get Missy to agree to meet at the club an hour and a half later.
Jet had never been to the club or even been much of a tennis player, but she wasn’t intimidated by the setting. Given her experience as a girl’s track star at Woodford County High School, she was comfortable around athletic venues. On the other hand, her tight jeans, bright yellow, sleeveless top, and red wedge sandals stood out amongst the white-over-white-over-white so many of the women were wearing for their weekend excursion into health and fitness.
Jet had looked on the company website and seen a picture of Missy Charles, so she had little trouble finding Missy as she walked off the court. Given the clothing Jet was wearing, Missy seemed to sense Jet’s identity easily as well.
“Miss Jet, I assume?” Missy threw a white towel over her shoulder. She was clearly in her late forties or even early fifties, but her hair and face were well-conditioned and very pleasing. She looked trim and fit in her unofficial uniform. “Nice to meet you.”
“Jet,” she stuck out her hand. “It’s just Jet. Thanks for taking the time.”
Missy Charles looked Jet over somewhat cautiously. “So, you never did tell me what was so important that we had to meet on a Saturday morning.”
Jet stuck with the style that suited her best─blunt. “Yeah, well if I had, I was pretty sure you would have put me off until Monday.” She smiled.
Missy nodded gently, a form of tacit acceptance. “Well, there’ll be a penalty for that deceit.” She continued. “There’s a coffee bar around the corner and down the hall. Decent lattes, but seriously over-priced. You’re buying.”
Jet hitched for a moment, then made a grand gesture with her arm. “Lead on.”
When the women had gotten their lattes and taken their seats, Missy took the lead. “Okay. You’ve certainly gotten my attention. Now, what’s this all about?”
Jet was tempted to spin a yarn about being a writer for some bourbon magazine, someone who was trying to get an exclusive story about the new bourbon Victor Rasmussen was promising. At the last minute, however, a close look at Missy Charles had given her pause. In Jet’s mind, there was every reason to believe that the attractive, well-kept, clearly successful woman she was sitting with was exactly the kind of woman who might read bourbon magazines; it was possible she could sniff Jet out as an impostor with just a few simple questions. Jet decided to go in a different direction. “I’m not sure I’m at liberty to say.”
That response set Missy back for the briefest moment, but she was quick to recover. “Very interesting. Go on.”
The thought flashed through Jet’s mind that this woman might well be quite good at playing chess. She hoped she could pull this off. “Well, let’s just say that I represent a small group of investors who are always interested in finding, how would you say it, unusual opportunities.”
Missy’s face lost a little luster. “Listen . . . ah, Jet. The Rasmussen Company has all the capital it needs to continue being very successful, in fact, to continue to grow. I’m not sure what your,” she used her fingers to create air quotes, “group is thinking, but I’m pretty certain we’re not interested.”
Jet felt the chill coming off Missy Charles and knew she had to work quickly. She smiled broadly. “Oh, Ms. Charles. The people I represent have no interest in your employer’s roofing business.” She looked at Missy over the glasses she never wore. “I’m sure you know what I mean.”
Jet could see that she had scored a point with that answer. Missy seemed just a bit flustered. “Honestly, I don’t think I do.”
Jet took a slow, deliberate sip of her latte, her eyes on Missy the whole time. Then she looked down at her cup. “Interesting how important the taste of a fine beverage can become to some folks,” she looked up, “isn’t it?”
Missy Charles sat silently for a moment, the subtle look on her face making it obvious that her mind was running a mile a minute. Finally, a spark of recognition crossed her face. “Are you talking about a certain beverage that might be said to have historical importance in our fine commonwealth?” Her eyes searched Jet’s face for a response.
“Let’s just say that the finer things in life often require a process of aging. Wouldn’t you agree?”
A tiny smile touched the corners of Missy’s lips. “I do believe I understand what you’re saying.”
Jet could sense Missy playing things as close to the vest as she was herself. “I’m glad.” She leaned in, her voice becoming softer, more discreet. “And would you agree that if someone had found a way to bypass part of that aging process and still wind up with a beverage of the highest quality, that person would be on the
path to a special sort of success?” She smiled ever so slightly. “One might say a level of success almost hard to believe?”
Missy took a long sip of her own. “Listen, Jet.” She spoke softly and had no problem with the name this time. “I think I understand completely the type of circumstance to which you are referring. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I have very little information to share with you about that situation.” She picked up a small, square napkin and blotted her lips. “And even if I did, I would not be at liberty to share it.”
Jet took a moment to look around the coffee bar, taking in the small tables, the two-some of women in white-on-white-on-white, the bored-looking young girl with the perfectly cut hair behind the counter. She was hoping to give the impression that she was about to say something of great import. She leaned back in her chair. “Okay then, Ms. Charles. I guess I’ll have to take my questions directly to Mr. Rasmussen.”
“Good luck with that,” Missy almost snorted. She gave Jet a snarky smile. “He’s in Europe.”
Jet was truly taken aback. She used a sip of her latte to help hide her surprise. “Oh, is he? And how long will he be there?”
The tone of the conversation had shifted from conspiratorial to quietly confrontational. Missy shrugged. “Actually, I don’t know. He’s off galivanting around Europe, supposedly learning about the history of . . .” She stopped herself. The next words out of her mouth were slow and almost sensual. “The history of creating finer things.” She ended with slightly pouted lips.
Jet knew she had to stay with this line of questioning─without being obvious. “And how long has he been in Europe, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Missy took a final sip of her latte. There was nothing dramatic in her motions or speech. “He left about ten days ago.” She didn’t elaborate.
