Murder on the Rocks (17 page)

“Thank goodness for that. I think you scared off half of my customer base yesterday.”

“Nah, you wait and see. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised at how many of them
return. Let’s just play things by ear and see what develops.”

The kitchen door opened then and Pete poked his head in. “Mack? There’s some guy out
here who says he’s supposed to change the locks on the place?”

“I’ll be right there.”

Duncan took out his cell phone, punched a number, and while he was waiting for someone
to answer said, “Don’t give anyone a copy of the new keys, okay?”

“I won’t.”

With that, I left him in the kitchen and headed out to the main bar area where I found
a short, stocky, bearded fellow who looked to be in his mid-fifties standing just
inside the front door. He had a classic drinker’s nose: bulbous, red, and lined with
fine, superficial vessels. It gave me an idea about how he ended up owing a cop a
favor.

“Marty Giordano at your service,” he said, extending a hand.

“Mack Dalton.” We exchanged a quick, awkward handshake and I tried not to wrinkle
my nose at a briny smell that might have been a synesthetic reaction or Marty’s body
odor on this hot, humid morning.

“I know who you are,” Marty said, smiling. “Though you’ve changed a lot since the
last time I saw you, except for that red hair of yours. I used to come into your bar
back in the day, but you were just a little tyke then. I knew your dad real well.
It’s a shame what happened to him.”

“Yes,” I said, at a loss for anything else.

“I understand you want all the locks changed?”

“That’s correct,” Duncan said from behind me, catching me by surprise. I hadn’t heard
his approach and thought I’d left him in the kitchen.

“Ah, Mr. Dalton I presume?” Marty said with a wink, extending his hand again.

I bit back a smile and avoided looking at Duncan, who ended up having the last laugh.

“Nah, I kept my own name,” Duncan said with a counter wink, giving Marty a hearty
handshake. “It’s Albright, but please call me Duncan.”

“Duncan it is. I’m Marty.”

“Nice to meet you, Marty. Let me show you exactly what needs to be done. We need to
replace the locks on this front door here, and also the back door that opens into
the alley. There’s some police tape back there but you can ignore it to do what you
need to. I’ll show you where it is because I also need you to put a lock on a couple
of other doors back that way.”

While Duncan led Marty toward the back hallway I stood slack-jawed a moment, trying
to decide if I was amused, angry, or merely annoyed. Then I followed, curious to see
where this was going. When I got to the back hallway, Duncan was dishing out instructions
for my office door.

“This door is easily visible from most of the bar area and kitchen, but I want a new
lock on it anyway.” Then he turned and pointed at the door leading to the stairs to
my apartment. “This one has a perfectly serviceable dead bolt on the other side but
we need the knob lock on this side changed and given a separate key from the office
door.”

I didn’t miss his use of the term “we” and pondered its significance for a few seconds
before deciding there probably wasn’t any. Duncan was simply trying to expedite things
by avoiding tedious, time-consuming explanations. I listened as he instructed Marty
to change the locks on the alley door—both the dead bolt and the knob—and started
adding up the cost in my head. I had a feeling this was going to be way more than
I could afford. Fortunately Duncan’s next instructions gave me a minor reprieve, though
it felt like too little, too late.

“There’s also an emergency exit opening onto the alley on the other side of the building,
back by the pool table. It has no access from the outside and it’s alarmed, so I think
we’re okay leaving it as it is. Any questions?”

Marty didn’t have any, but I did. I was a hairsbreadth away from going ballistic.
As soon as Marty left to get his work tools, I grabbed Duncan by the arm and pulled
him around to look at me.

“You’ve got nerve deciding what I can and can’t afford to have done here, Duncan.
There’s no need to be changing these inside locks now and I’ve already told you I
can’t afford to have any of this done. Where do you get off making those decisions
for me and passing yourself off as my husband? I get that you’re worried about Gary
and people with keys and all that, but damn it, this is my bar, and it’s my money,
and I get to say what does or doesn’t get done. Is that clear?”

Duncan looked down at me and smiled. “Wow,” he said in a calm tone that belied the
word. “There’s that redheaded temper again.”

I gaped at him for several seconds, momentarily speechless. “That’s it?” I said, finally.
“That’s all you have to say for yourself? Because if you think you’ve seen my temper
now, you have another think coming, Detective. Just you wait.” With that I whirled
away from him, hauled open the door to the stairs leading to my apartment, and stomped
my way up there, slamming the door in my wake. Though I couldn’t be sure, I thought
I heard Duncan chuckle as the door closed.

Furious, but not sure why or what to do with my anger, I paced in my apartment, muttering
to myself about pushy, presumptuous men in general and Duncan Albright in particular.
Eventually I wore myself—and my anger—out and with a sigh of resignation, I went back
downstairs where I found Marty at work on my office door.

Duncan was behind the bar talking with Pete, and Debra was hauling beer up from the
basement. I thanked Debra for restocking—a job I usually did—and apologized for being
so distracted and scattered.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said with a warm smile. “We’re all a little out of sorts
with everything that’s happened.”

“Quick question,” I said. “Did my father ever say anything to you, or did you ever
hear him talk about Al Capone?”

“Al Capone the gangster?”

I nodded.

“No, why?”

“No reason, just curious. Forget I asked.”

“Okay. What do you want me to do next? Have you had time to chop up fruit and veggies?”

“I haven’t,” I told her. “But you may find it more of a challenge than it should be
since the police confiscated my knife set and I haven’t had a chance to buy a new
one yet.”

“Oh . . . my,” Debra said, her eyes growing big. “That’s interesting.”

“I have an idea. Let me see what I can dig up,” she offered. With that, we both went
behind the bar, me to finish stocking the beers, and Debra to grab her purse, which
she kept tucked toward the back of the shelf beneath the bar at the end farthest from
the kitchen. Pete and Duncan were behind the bar, too, and whatever discussion they
were having stopped as soon as we approached.

Debra said, “I’m going to make a quick run to that little kitchen store a couple of
blocks over and see if I can get Mack a new set of knives. Back in a jiffy.”

The rest of us got down to work, scrambling to get everything ready for opening time.
Debra was true to her word, returning fifteen minutes later. I saw her through a front
window as she knocked on the door and then scared the reporter off with a look I imagined
she had honed on her teenage boys. I went over to unlock the door and let her in.

“I got a great deal, Mack. I bought three different carving knives and a new paring
knife. They don’t match and there wasn’t a block to go with them, so Myrna gave me
all four at a steep discount.” She pulled one of the knives out of the bag she was
carrying to show it to me. The business end was wrapped in cardboard but the hasp
and handle looked solidly made. When Debra showed me the receipt I saw that if all
the knives were up to the standard of the first, she had indeed gotten a fantastic
deal.

“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.”

M
arty 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.”

“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 the
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.”