“That’s all kind of up in the air right now,” I said honestly. “Why?”
“You and Mal . . .” He gestured with a nod toward the Capone Club room. “He’s a cop, isn’t he?”
I was so surprised by this question that I didn’t answer right away. That, in and of itself, was an answer.
“I knew it,” Tyrese said with a self-satisfied grin. “Certain things the guy said and did when we went to the prison gave it away.”
The fact that Tyrese now knew this wasn’t good, but it didn’t worry me overly much. I trusted him. He came across as honest and forthright, and not once had any of my senses picked up anything worrisome about him. In my mind, I had already crossed him off the suspect list. But I realized I might have to second-guess myself. He hadn’t asked me who I suspected, nor had he asked me if he was a suspect. That seemed odd, considering he was a cop.
“You’re right,” I admitted. “He’s working undercover on something else and hanging out with me in his spare time, both as a protector and as a diversion to convince anyone who’s watching that Duncan and I are no longer together in any way, shape, or form. Please don’t give him away.”
“No need to worry about that, Mack. His secret is safe with me.” He glanced at his watch again. “I really do have to go. Be careful, okay?” I nodded, and with that he hurried down the stairs.
I turned around and headed back into the Capone Club room. Sam was up and saying his good-byes, and he left with a promise to be back tomorrow. Now that the only people left were Cora, Mal, and Carter, I decided we could have a chat with Carter regarding our theory.
I glanced back toward the door of the room to make sure there were no unexpected visitors popping in. Seeing that the door and the hall outside were empty, I settled into a chair and dove in.
“Carter, I want to talk to you about this letter writer thing,” I began.
“Why didn’t you tell me about it sooner?” he said, the hurt clear in his voice. “I thought I was part of your insider group, one of the trusted ones.”
“I figured the fewer people who knew, the better it would be,” I said, neatly avoiding giving him an answer to his question. “And there’s something else about it you don’t know yet.”
“You think someone from the club is involved, don’t you?”
My eyebrows shot up, as did Cora’s. Mal’s might have; I wasn’t looking at him when Carter dropped his bomb of a revelation.
Rather than confirm or deny Carter’s statement, I hit him back with a question of my own. “What makes you say that?”
He shrugged, tapped his fingers on the tabletop, and then said, “I know you pretty well by now. You might think that’s presumptuous of me, and I wouldn’t blame you if you did. But I’m a good study of character. I read people well. In part, it’s because I’ve always wanted to be a writer, and I’ve always been interested in what makes people tick. But I think it’s a natural talent I have. It served me well as a waiter. My ability to read people and anticipate their needs earned me better than average tips.”
He paused for a few seconds, and when no one spoke, he continued. “You, Mack, are a consummate caregiver. You worry far more about other people than you do about yourself. I think that stems to some degree from living your entire life in a service industry, but I also think you are kind, thoughtful, and altruistic by nature. So when you told us tonight about this harassment, and how long it had been going on, I wondered why you had waited so long to tell everyone. I assumed part of your decision was based on a desire to protect everyone in the group, but given that two people have died already, that logic seemed a bit skewed, particularly for you. So it had to have been something else that made you hesitate. After thinking about it for a bit, the only logical reason I could come up with was that you suspected someone in the group was the culprit, or one of the culprits, anyway.”
He paused again and looked back and forth between the three of us. No one said a word.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” Carter said.
“You’re not,” I told him.
“Any idea who it is?”
I shook my head. “We know who it isn’t because we’ve been able to establish alibis for some of the members. But beyond that . . .” I shrugged.
“And I’m guessing I’m on the suspect list since no one has asked me for any alibis,” Carter said.
I gave him a grudging nod.
“Well, I was here when Gary was killed,” he said.
“It’s not Gary’s death we’re looking at,” Cora said. “It’s Lewis’s.”
“Ah, I see,” Carter said. His fingers were once again tapping on the tabletop, faster now than before. “I don’t have an alibi for that particular time period because I was home alone. But I didn’t kill Lewis, or anyone else, for that matter.”
He looked me straight in the eye as he said this, and I guessed he was saying it for my benefit, allowing me to analyze his speech pattern and the taste of his voice.
My suspicion was confirmed when he then said, “Ask me anything you want, Mack. You’ve tested me before when we were playing games, so you know what my voice does when I’m lying.”
He was right. I’d been tested by several members of the Capone Club in the past, and in each case, I was able to tell when they were lying to me. All of them squirmed a bit when I did it, and I knew that my ability to see through their lies made them uncomfortable.
As if he was reading my mind, Carter said, “Why don’t you just ask everyone who is on the suspect list to see if any of them lie to you?”
“I thought about doing that,” I told him. “But it isn’t as easy as it seems, at least not if I want to preserve some level of comfort, trust, and friendship with the group members. To begin with, I haven’t tested everyone’s voice patterns—mainly the newcomers, but a couple of the older members, too. Aside from some games we played back when the group was first established and people wanted to test me, I’ve more or less tuned out the changes in people’s voices because everyone tells white lies, and it seems like an invasion of privacy to be constantly monitoring what people say. And secondly, what question do I ask? I don’t think the person writing the actual letters—at least the majority of them—is from the group, so asking that won’t help. And while I have a strong suspicion about who the letter writer is, I’m not certain, so asking anyone if they are working with that person is of little value. That leaves me with Lewis’s death. Do I go around and ask everyone if they killed Lewis Carmichael? Half the people would probably give me a non-answer, or laugh it off, or make some sarcastic remark. And I imagine the other half would be upset and offended.”
“Not me,” Carter said. “Ask me.”
I stared at him.
“Come on, Mack,” he insisted. “Ask me. I want to clear my name. In fact, ask me that and one or two other questions, and I’ll lie in answering one of them, to give you a comparison.”
His earnest expression and desperate tone told me how badly he wanted me to believe in him and his innocence. I looked over at Cora, who shrugged, then at Mal, who nodded toward Carter in a go ahead fashion.
“Okay, Carter, what is your mother’s maiden name, what’s your favorite food, and did you kill Lewis Carmichael?” The mental schism created by the incongruity of those questions being asked together literally made my head hurt.
“My mother’s maiden name is my first name, Carter,” he said. “My favorite food is macaroni and cheese, and no, I did not kill Lewis Carmichael.”
As soon as he was done, I felt the eyes of Cora and Mal on me, watching, waiting for my response. I didn’t prolong the suspense. “Okay, Carter, I believe you didn’t kill Lewis,” I said. “And what is your favorite food?”
Carter smiled, and I heard both Mal and Cora let out breaths of relief. “It’s peaches,” Carter said. “I’d give my right arm for a juicy, perfectly ripened peach.”
Now it was my turn to smile. “Nice move, Carter. Now tell me the truth this time.”
C
arter’s smile widened and looked a little impish. Cora wagged a finger at him, and Mal just shook his head and smiled.
“I just wanted to see if you were paying attention,” Carter said with a wink. “And the truth is my favorite food is bacon, and that kind you use on your BLTs here is the best.”
This time he was telling me the truth. “Okay then,” I said. “Consider yourself exonerated. And that means you are part of the team that’s going to help us catch a killer.”
Chapter 19
By the time I was done filling Carter in on what we knew about the letter writer, it was nearly closing time. We called it a night, and agreed to look at it all with a fresh eye the next day. Carter and Cora left and, since it was late, Mal escorted Cora back to her office/apartment, which was only a block or so away.
I shooed all of my staff out the door at the same time, after once again eliciting promises from them to stick together on their way to their cars and to keep a watchful eye out. Mal returned from walking Cora home, and after I let him in, he made the rounds of the place to ensure that everything was locked up tight.
Linda called me back while I was doing my cleanup, and I settled in at the bar while I talked to her.
Her reaction to the news wasn’t what I expected.
“So you’ve been messing around with this crime-solving stuff, and now you have someone who is stalking you because of it?”
“Well, yes, I guess. I—”
“What did you think would happen?” she asked angrily. Before I could answer, she went on. “When people poke around and accuse others of crimes without any solid evidence, they’re just asking for trouble. And you don’t stop to think about what you’re doing to the lives of the other people involved.”
Clearly, she was angry. Was it because of the situation with her brother? Did she think her brother was innocent and wrongly suspected?
“Linda, I—”
“What’s done is done,” she said, once again interrupting me. “Let the cards fall where they may.” She let out a fatalistic sigh. “I have to go, Mack. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She hung up. I sat there, staring at my phone with a perplexed expression for several seconds.
Mal saw the look on my face and settled in on the barstool next to me. “What’s wrong?”
I filled him in on my odd conversation with Linda.
“She sounds unstable,” he said. “Maybe you should fire her.”
He was probably right, but something about Linda in general made me want to wait. “I get a sense from her that she’s very vulnerable. There’s something in her past, something other than this thing with her brother, and I think it’s had an effect on her. Let’s hold off for now and see what happens.”
I could tell Mal didn’t approve of my plan, but he didn’t argue. I got up and went behind the bar to finish my cleanup duties.
Mal watched me for a few minutes and then said, “Mack, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“What?”
“I don’t feel comfortable with you staying here alone at night. The place is locked up and all, but now that this letter writer thing has blown up, I’m worried for your safety.”
“I’ll be okay,” I said, but I didn’t sound convincing to my own ear. Truth was, the whole thing had me spooked.
“You probably will be, but I’d still feel better if I was here. Let me stay over. I’m not looking for anything intimate or personal, I promise. Just let me have the couch to sleep on.”
I gave it a split second of thought, and then nodded. It would make me feel more comfortable knowing he was there, and I trusted him when he said he wouldn’t make it personal.
“I’m going out to my car to grab my go-bag,” he said. “I’ll be back in a minute. Will you lock up behind me and then let me back in?”
“Of course.”
An hour later, we were upstairs in my apartment, and after a brief round of debate that bordered on argument, Mal agreed to sleep in my father’s bed rather than on the couch. I convinced him in the end by insisting that I would feel like I had more privacy if he was in a room with a door that could be closed. Despite this excuse, when I finally went to bed I left my bedroom door open and was happy to see that Mal had his only partially closed.
With everything that had happened, I expected a restless night of tossing, turning, and strange dreams. But instead I slept better than I had in a long time, a heavy, restful, and dreamless sleep.
* * *
I awoke the following morning feeling content, well rested, and eager to start the day. As I sat up in bed, I caught the scent of fresh-brewed coffee and knew that Mal had gotten up ahead of me. I hit the bathroom to pee and run a brush through my hair and over my teeth, and then I headed for the kitchen. Mal was sitting at the kitchen table, dressed in a light gray T-shirt and dark gray sweatpants, his hair sticking up on the crown of his head in an Alfalfa-like cowlick. It made me smile.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Good morning. How did you sleep?”
“Surprisingly well,” I answered. “How about you?”
“The same. I have to say, your father’s bed is quite comfortable. I hope you’re truly okay with me sleeping there.”
I was. “He would be glad to know someone enjoyed it,” I told him. “He spent the better of a year buying that mattress, hitting up dozens of bedding and furniture stores, and lying on every mattress they had. The Princess and the Pea had nothing on my father. If there was the tiniest lump, bump, or flaw in a mattress, he could feel it. He had this thick notebook full of ratings and comments for every mattress he’d tried. He drove the store workers crazy. I know, because I went with him on these excursions a few times, on Sunday mornings when the bar was closed. He loved to shop on Sundays. While other people were in church worshipping their deity, my father was bed-hopping all over Milwaukee.”
Mal chuckled. “Well, he picked a good one.”
My smile faded, my mood sobering. “He only got to sleep in it for a few months,” I said. “He bought it in October of last year, and then he was killed in January.” I realized with a shock that the anniversary of that day was just around the corner, though the word anniversary sounded far too celebratory and cheerful for marking that particular occasion.
Mal’s expression sobered as well. I expected him to offer up some standard condolence phrase, but he said nothing. Instead, he got up from his seat, walked over and pulled the other chair out from the table, took hold of my hand, and steered me to the seat. I sat down and then watched him as he poured me a cup of coffee, topping it off with a dollop of heavy cream the way I like it. He set it down in front of me and then went over to the stove, where he started fixing something to eat.
I sat in comfortable silence, watching him work, enjoying the fragrant scents of vanilla, cinnamon, and butter that emanated from whatever concoction he was preparing. Before too long, I realized he was making crêpes filled with strawberries and cream. I took out my cell phone, which I had slipped into the pocket of my robe, and checked it for calls. There were none, which both relieved and disappointed me. No news was good news, I figured, when it came to my friends and patrons and the letter writer. If anything had happened, I’m sure my phone would have been lit up with messages. But some part of me was also hoping there might have been a message from Duncan.
At one point, I got up and retrieved my tablet from the living room and brought it back to the kitchen table so I could check on the daily news. Mal watched me in silence, continuing with what he was doing. By the time he set three sugar-dusted crêpes in front of me, my stomach was growling so loudly I swear people out on the street could have heard it.
“Bon appetite,” he said.
“Thank you. If it tastes half as good as it smells, I’ll be in heaven.”
He topped off my coffee and then went back to the stove to fix his own helping. I started scanning the newspaper.
It was a relatively quiet news day—a relief for me. No mu
rders, no riots, in fact no real violence of any sort locally. Yet despite my relief, I felt like this was the proverbial calm before the storm. Surely the letter writer—Suzanne presumably—had seen the article about me in yesterday’s paper. Even if she hadn’t seen it on her own, if I was right about someone in the Capone Club being involved, whoever it was would tell her about it. It was bound to cause a reaction sooner or later, and waiting for something to happen was a bit nerve-racking.
By the time Mal had joined me at the table, I had scanned through all of the newsy part of the paper.
“Anything?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“My guys are going to come and help me with the demo this afternoon. I hope the noise won’t be too disruptive to your business.”
“If it is, it is,” I said with a shrug. “It’s only temporary, and it will be worth it in the long run.”
“They’ll be here at five when you open,” he said, punctuating the comment with a huge forkful of crêpe. “Several of them worked all night. Undercover work isn’t always a Monday through Friday, nine-to-five thing the way mine is. In the meantime, when do you want to visit The Domes?”
I glanced at the wall clock and saw it was closing in on ten o’clock. “I need to do some prep stuff downstairs so we’re ready to open at five in case we don’t get back before then. And I have some things I need to order and get ready for the New Year’s Eve party. After that I’m free. So let’s figure on leaving here around eleven-thirty, if that’s okay with you.”
“That’s fine.”
“I guess I better get dressed then,” I said. I pushed the tablet aside, stabbed the last bite of crêpe on my plate, and shoved it in my mouth. After relishing my final taste of this delightful breakfast, I washed it down with a big swallow of coffee and got up from the table.
As I headed out of the kitchen, I walked over and gave Mal a kiss on top of his head, just in front of that crazy cowlick. “Thank you for breakfast,” I said. “And for everything else.” The kiss might have made one or both of us feel awkward, or it might have created an air of tension between us, yet it did neither.
A Toast to Murder Page 19
