White Colander Crime

by Victoria Hamilton

  He chuckled and drained his glass, ordering another rye and cola when the waiter brought their dinner and the bottle of wine. “And you’re getting more attractive with everything you say. Maybe old Joel knew a thing or two.” He winked.

  “Glenn, did Shelby ever speak of Cody Wainwright?”

  “Why would she talk about a creep like that?”

  “You know he’s a creep?”

  “Well, sure, from what I’ve heard. He’s in jail, isn’t he?”

  “It was a vicious crime. You must have been shocked when you heard.”

  “It was awful. A real shame.”

  “You mentioned that she could be a little much, though, right? Can you see that driving someone to hurt her?”

  He paused and stared at her. “Are you suggesting she deserved what happened to her?”

  “Of course not!” Jaymie said, flustered. She wasn’t being as subtle as she’d hoped, obviously.

  “I hope not. If every snarky and difficult woman in the world got murdered there’d be no women left.”

  She watched him as he ate. His behavior baffled her. His attitude toward Shelby was hard to read, sometimes complimentary, sometimes critical. “So how is work?” she asked. “I understand you work for a competitor of Joel’s.”

  “I’m taking a break.”

  “You left the company?”

  “We had a parting of the ways. I was getting bored anyway.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “Last week. I’m not gonna worry about it until after the New Year.” He smiled. “I’m a gentleman of leisure right now.”

  “What brought it on? Heidi told me that she heard you were fired over something you posted online, something inappropriate about a girl. Was it something about Shelby?”

  “Why did she tell you that? What is this?” he asked suddenly, his voice underlain by a tension and anger that was a warning. He stared at her, his tone changing to puzzlement rather than anger as he asked, “What do you want? What are you looking for?”

  “I am just trying to find out about Shelby Fretter, everything about her, even if it’s something you said online or something someone else said.” She had flash of insight as to what would appeal to someone like Brennan, and leaned over, lowering her voice to a confidential murmur. “I want the dirt, the inside scoop. Everyone is so disgustingly positive when someone is killed. You only hear about the good side of them. I want everything else.”

  Glenn calmed. His eyes glistened with interest. “I could tell you things,” he said, his words slurring softly. He knocked back the rest of his drink and the remainder of his wine, then held up his hand to the waiter to signal for another. “Shelby Fretter was a gold digger, just like the others. They only ever get with a guy for free meals, or they ask you for money for plastic surgery, then they dump your ass and move on. I don’t know what the hell she saw in that Cody kid, but it must have just been sex, ’cause she liked a guy with money and she didn’t care where the money came from.”

  Stunned, Jaymie only managed to murmur, “Oh?” It seemed she had blown up the dam that had been holding back his venom.

  “She pretended to be high-class, but I heard she was dating some biker guy who made his money from drugs and a protection racket.”

  “Really?”

  “She was none too particular. Heard she was dating around a lot.”

  His tone was vicious, and she felt queasy. “But you had stopped dating her before she died, right?”

  “Oh, sure!” he said, waving one hand and almost knocking over his wine glass.

  “Have the police talked to you yet?”

  “Why would they?”

  “They want to talk to anyone who knew Shelby. Maybe they haven’t gotten to you yet. This just happened last Friday evening, after all. Were you at the Dickens Days event?”

  “Crap, no! Christmas is overrated.”

  “Were you on a date maybe?”

  He squinted across the table. “What?”

  “Last Friday night. Were you out on a date?”

  He shook his head, a little confused looking. “Can’t remember.”

  “Glenn, that was only four days ago.”

  “Maybe I was out of town . . . yeah, out of town, working.”

  “Working? But you’d left your job.”

  He shrugged and stood as the waiter approached with another rye and coke. “I gotta go.”

  “Glenn, wait, you can’t leave yet,” she said, shaking her head to the waiter, who turned and took the drink away. “You have to pay for your meal.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He summoned the hapless waiter who returned, this time with the tableside debit-credit machine.

  It was a confusing few minutes. While Glenn tried to remember his credit-card PIN number, Jaymie jumped up and found the maître d’, taking him aside. “Between the rye and the wine, Mr. Brennan has had way too much liquor. I don’t want him driving away from here.”

  The man looked alarmed, his thick brows raised. “But the wine was for you, was it not? Mr. Brennan was drinking rye.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t drink anything. I just met the man tonight. Did he arrive in his own car?”

  “I think he drove here.” He wrung his hands, then tugged at his suit jacket sleeves. “I must do something. We can’t risk trouble.”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Jaymie said.

  The maître d’ bustled off, had a whispered conference with another very well dressed gentleman, then came back to the table just as Jaymie was sitting back down and Glenn was returning his credit card to his wallet and sliding it into his jacket pocket.

  “Mr. Brennan, as a courtesy of the restaurant we would like to offer you a taxi cab ride home, or to the destination of your choice.”

  Glenn’s alcoholic funk had worsened. He protested that he was perfectly fine to drive, but he wasn’t. He searched his pockets for his keys, then stared at them in mystification when he dug them out. Between them, the manager and maître d’ got his satin-lined cashmere trench coat from a hanger in the cloakroom, helped him into it, hustled him out to a waiting taxi and sent him home to his condo in Wolverhampton, the address obtained from his driver’s license.

  Jaymie paid her portion of the bill, tipped generously, and gathered her things. But before she left, she spoke to the maître d’ again. “Has Glenn Brennan been to this restaurant before?”

  “Oh yes, he’s a regular.”

  “Have you had this trouble with him before?”

  He appeared hesitant, but finally said, “We usually establish a limit with him. The wine tonight fooled us.”

  “Do you know if he was here last Friday evening?” He gazed at her blankly, and she continued, “He’s, uh, dating a friend, and she’s just wondering where he was. He didn’t show up for their date.”

  “I don’t believe he was here.”

  “Okay. Thanks so much!” She headed outside in a thoughtful frame of mind. Where was Glenn Brennan at the time of the murder? How could she find out?

  She sat in her van and checked her phone. There was a text from Cynthia. Tuesday was pool tournament night at the bar, and the biker in question, Clutch Roth, always participated. Jaymie could probably catch him, Johnny had told Cynthia. Jaymie was faintly uneasy about it, but she had sworn to investigate. Johnny would be there at any rate, in case she ran into trouble.

  She drove directly there instead of going home first. The bar—called Shooters, a reference to both drinking and pool playing, Jaymie assumed—was a low-slung joint on the highway about halfway between Queensville and Wolverhampton. Jaymie pulled into the parking lot in front. During the day the place was nondescript brown shingles and dark windows, but at night it blazed with a shooting star neon light over the false front. The doors were lined in blinking red and green holiday lights, and tinsel
garland striped the posts that held up the overhang. A festive OPEN sign blinked, as well as neon ads for beer and liquor. Jaymie had been there once or twice with Bernie and other friends when they wanted to play pool. It wasn’t her kind of scene, but it certainly wasn’t dangerous, even if it did have a bit of a reputation for being a biker bar.

  She pushed through the door and let her eyes adjust to the darkness punctuated by a blaze of neon everywhere: lights over the long wooden bar, glowing liquor ads and a retro jukebox in the corner howling out Def Leppard over the rumble of chatter and laughter. She spotted Johnny with a bar rag slung over his shoulder. He was carrying a bus tray, clearing a table in the corner of foam-flecked glasses and empty bottles. She slipped through the crowd and approached him. “Hey, Johnny,” she said, tugging at his rolled-up jean sleeve.

  “Hey, Jaymie,” he said, smiling but seeming uneasy.

  Johnny was a big fellow, long limbed, shambling, always looking like he hadn’t grown into his height yet, even though he was in his late thirties. He had a rough life growing up, Valetta, who babysat him as a kid, had told her, but Jaymie knew he was doing his best to stay on the straight and narrow now after a stint in prison. He was keeping up with meetings, going now with Cynthia Turbridge, and though a bar might seem like a rotten job for a recovering alcoholic, he appeared to be making a go of it.

  “Do you have a minute to talk?”

  He glanced around. All the tables were clear. “I’ll dump this, check with the bartender, and we can sit here for a minute. Can I bring you something?”

  “Just ice water with lemon, if you could?”

  “Sure.” He swiped his rag around on the table, hoisted the bus tray on his shoulder and headed behind the bar.

  She slid into a banquette seat with her back to the wall and examined the room, wondering if her quarry was already there. Shooters was long and low-ceilinged, with a bar along one side near the front, banquette seating along the other side, tables for those who wanted to sit and a big square area at the back with six game tables: four for regular pool and two snooker tables. Some folks gathered, but they were mostly chatting and casually knocking a few balls around, no actual games yet.

  Johnny returned, set the ice water on a coaster in front of her and sat down, keeping his eye on the barroom. He was busboy, bar back—responsible for refilling ice and fetching items from the storeroom for the bartender—and bouncer.

  “Is he here yet?” Jaymie asked.

  “Not yet.” He checked his watch. “It’s just seven thirty. He’s usually here about now.” He glanced over at her. “This isn’t going to get him in trouble, is it?”

  “No, not at all. He’s just been mentioned as going out with Shelby Fretter and I’m wondering if he knows anything that could give a hint as to who killed her.”

  “Going out with her? I don’t think so. He’s got an old lady, you know,” he said. “Does this mean that you don’t think that Cody joker is the guy?”

  She examined Johnny’s rugged face, twisted in a skeptical expression. “Have you met Cody?”

  “Sure. He was in here a few times.”

  “What’s he like? I only know him through Nan.”

  Johnny sighed, leaned back and crossed his feet at the ankles, sticking his long legs out in front of him, his size-thirteen boots like small rafts. “He’s like the other college kids who come in here slumming, trying to pick up the hot biker chicks, biting off way more than they can chew. He got in a fight one night and he’s been banned ever since. The owner doesn’t take that crap from anyone.”

  Uneasily, Jaymie thought that was just the kind of hothead who would fly off the handle and beat a girl who sassed him.

  “That’s Clutch there,” he said, nodding toward a tall skinny guy with graying hair pulled back in a ponytail and ample gray stubble on his chin. The biker ambled in, followed by a careworn-looking woman in jeans, a tee and a leather bomber-style jacket that did not look warm enough for a motorcycle ride in subzero temperatures. She shivered. Clutch had on jeans and black leather boots, and over it all he wore a caped duster. The woman slipped behind the bar where a pot of coffee was at the ready and poured herself a mug, but the man took a spot at the bar, one foot up on the railing. “He looks like one tough dude, and he is. But I’ve never seen him disrespect a lady.”

  Jaymie nodded. Johnny lived by the same code, she knew, and that was his attraction for someone like Cynthia Turbridge. Another guy might seem smoother, more sophisticated, more elegant, but when it came down to brass tacks it was how a man treated a woman that was important. That was what told you everything you needed to know about him, in some respects, anyway.

  Jaymie wondered how she should approach him. It might be dicey asking him if he dated Shelby when he had his lady with him. She asked Johnny his opinion.

  He stood and whipped the bar cloth over his shoulder. “Let me send him over. I’d be straight with him, if I were you. He doesn’t like it when folks lie to him. It makes him mad.”

  Jaymie felt a shiver down her back, and decided to take his advice. “Thanks, Johnny.”

  She watched while Johnny spoke to the guy, who turned and assessed Jaymie with a piercing gaze. He nodded, picked up his longneck beer and strolled over, sitting down in front of her.

  “Jaymie Leighton?” He stuck his big hand out across the table. “I’m Clutch. You want to talk to me about my acquaintance with Shelby Fretter.”

  She shook, examining his pale crystal-blue eyes, the skin around them seamed by years of life and a squinted view of the road through a helmet visor. She felt an odd surge of amity. There was something about this guy that she liked, and she wasn’t sure what it was. “I do. How did you know her?”

  “She was a friend,” he said shortly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “It was awful, how she died. I’m the one who found her. I wish I could have done more than just call 911.”

  “You did what you could,” he said.

  “They have a fellow in jail right now charged with her murder, did you know that?”

  He nodded, watching her and frowning. “You think they got the wrong guy?”

  “I don’t know, but I’d like to make sure. I don’t want the wrong guy locked up and the right guy—or girl—walking free.”

  “How old are you?”

  Jaymie startled, said, “I’m thirty-two.”

  He nodded. “Just a little older than Natalie.”

  “Who is Natalie?” Jaymie asked. The name was familiar. Could it be—?

  “That’s my daughter. Shelby Fretter was trying to help me find her. She’s been missing for six weeks.”

  Fifteen

  THERE WAS A moment of stunned silence on Jaymie’s part. Then she asked, “What happened? And what was Shelby’s part in it?”

  He hunkered forward, his elbows on the table, and stared into Jaymie’s eyes. “You working for that newspaper lady?”

  She hesitated and examined him, trying to decide if it was in her best interest to admit that she was. Then she remembered Johnny’s advice to be honest. “Kind of, but kind of not. I’m a columnist for the Howler, a food columnist. Vintage Eats.”

  He quirked a smile. “Hey, my lady reads that. Reminds her of the old days, she says.”

  Jaymie nodded. “Nan is a good woman. She, of course, is convinced her son didn’t kill Shelby, and wants someone other than the police looking into it. I’ve been successful in the past just poking around, looking into things. I’ve given myself three days to decide if I want to pursue it or not.”

  He nodded. “So if I tell you something and ask you not to spread it around, you’ll keep your mouth shut?”

  “Of course! Or at least . . .” She hesitated, picking at a scratch on the wood table as she tried to frame what she needed to say. “Clutch, I don’t care about anything but what pertains to this case. But if there is
something that I think the police need to know about, I’ll tell them. I have a friend on the Queensville force and Chief Ledbetter is kind of a friend, too.”

  He nodded, and his gaze slipped around the room. Someone waved to him from the pool table in the back and he returned the wave. “They’re waiting on me. Hold that thought a sec. I want to tell them to get on with it.” He stood, straightening to his full height, and ambled to the back, where he had a brief conversation with a potbellied fellow in jeans, who was chalking his cue stick.

  Jaymie glanced around. Clutch’s lady friend had donned a bar apron and was serving patrons, hoisting a large tray full of beer glasses and empties. She threaded through tables easily, as more folks entered and took seats or strode to the pool tables. The biker returned and straddled a chair, leaning his arms on the back of it.

  “I don’t want anyone railroaded. If that stupid-ass kid didn’t kill Shelby, then he ought to be freed. Anyway, I’m going to tell you about my daughter.” His voice broke, and he glanced around as he cleared his throat and swallowed. “Natalie is a good girl. She’s smart as a whip, but she sure does like money. So anyway, she was working at the bank in Wolverhampton but quit when some other job came up, something that would let her travel, she said, and make a lot of dough.”

  “Sounds ideal,” Jaymie said, privately thinking it sounded far too ideal.

  “Sure, but she wouldn’t tell me exactly what it was. I was worried and told her to be careful, but she just laughed.” He cleared his throat again. “She said, ‘Dad, I know what I’m doing! You know I’m no idiot.’ And that’s true, God love her. She’s a smart cookie. But man, she has the worst taste in guys! I didn’t like the fellows she was dating, and I didn’t like the guy who hired her, neither. He’s a pissant little piece of crap.” He shook his head. “Natalie is smart, but she has blinders when it came to men. Don’t get why. She keeps getting her heart broke, but she won’t smarten up.”

  Jaymie digested what he said, but still didn’t get what it had to do with anything. “So where does Shelby come in?”