Murder on the Rocks (9 page)

“I take it she hasn’t found one yet?”

“Oh, she’s found plenty of them,” I said with a chuckle. “But none that she’s kept
around for long. She has yet to find what she calls The One. But trust me; it’s not
from lack of trying. She’s a shameless flirt.”

“So I noticed.” Duncan glanced at Helmut, whose back was to us, and then waved me
into a back corner of the kitchen where we could talk more privately. “Did she ever
make a play for your father?”

“As a matter of fact, she did. She had a hard crush on him. She owns a computer troubleshooting
company and while Dad wasn’t above accepting her free help when he wanted to set up
wi-fi here for our customers, he always ignored her advances. Cora kept trying, though,
at least until Ginny came onto the scene. There was bit of brief competition, but
Cora backed off pretty quickly, either unwilling to compete with Ginny or because
she saw it was hopeless.”

“That gives Cora potential motive for both crimes.”

I shot him a skeptical look. “You think Cora might have killed my father and Ginny?”

“Hey, you know how the saying goes. Hell hath no fury and all that.” He shrugged.

Debra came into the kitchen with orders of her own. “How’s it going, Duncan? Are you
catching on?” she asked.

“I’m getting there,” he said as Debra turned and hurried back out front.

“We’re pretty busy tonight,” I said to Duncan, walking over and grabbing the finished
sandwiches Helmut had just made. “You’re going to get a trial-by-fire orientation.”

“So I see. I also see that your BLTs seem to be a popular choice.”

“They are, and for good reason. I make them with sourdough bread, the freshest heirloom
tomatoes I can find, and Nueske’s bacon cooked up with a bit of ground pepper. Plus
I mix a pinch of basil and garlic into the mayonnaise. It’s quite good.”

“It looks good. Smells good, too.”

“I’ll make you one later if you like.”

“I would.”

I grabbed a leftover slice of bacon and offered it to him. “Here’s a little something
to tide you over.”

I watched as he bit off a chunk in true heathen man style. He closed his eyes for
a few seconds as he chewed and when he opened them and looked at me, I was sucking
the flavor off the ends of my own fingers one at a time. His gaze shifted to my mouth
as I pulled a finger out of it and licked my lips. Then his gaze slowly drifted upward
and our eyes locked for several intense seconds. The flavor of the bacon on my fingers
had triggered a faint tinkling sound for me, but as Duncan and I stared at one another,
that sound was replaced by a loud swishing noise, like the agitator cycle in a washing
machine.

“I like,” Duncan said in a low, husky voice.

Helmut let out a “Hmph” and arched a brow at me.

I had no idea if Duncan was referring to the bacon or something else entirely, and
frankly I couldn’t have asked even if I’d wanted to. My throat felt like it was held
in a vise and the swooshing sound in my ears was making me dizzy. I realized then
that the sound wasn’t one of my synesthetic creations, but rather the mad pounding
of my own blood in my ears. Sensing Duncan was the cause, I turned toward the sink
and busied myself by washing my hands. Then I instructed Duncan on how to help me
deliver the various food items, taking care as I did so to avoid engaging those eyes
again.

T
urns out, Duncan was right about curiosity driving in the patrons. Not only was the
place filling up, everyone was talking about the body found in the alley. We hustled
tables, filled drink orders, answered questions, and observed people. And despite
his misgivings, Duncan Albright proved to be a quick study when it came to waiting
tables.

I filled Duncan in on what I knew of the customers who were familiar to me, sticking
to basic facts. I knew a lot more than I told, but unless I felt there was a compelling
reason to reveal some of the more private things I knew, I saw no reason to betray
those confidences.

It wasn’t long before Duncan zeroed in on another of my regulars, Tad Amundsen, a
forty-something CPA and financial manager who owned a nearby accounting and investment
firm. Aside from the fact that he wore glasses, Tad looked more like a model than
a CPA. He was extremely handsome, with dark hair long at the collar, blue eyes, a
tall, nicely muscular frame, and a squared-off jaw. He turned heads whenever he came
into the bar, and he was well-liked and popular. He enjoyed socializing and many of
my patrons—both men and women—have tried hitting on him from time to time, though
always without success as far as I knew.

Tad was married to Suzanne Collier, a woman eleven years his senior who was wealthy,
controlling, and—if Tad was to be believed—a bitch. I’d never met the woman, but I
had seen pictures of her. She had a pinched mouth, a narrow face, and bulgy eyes,
all of which were made to look their best with expensive, professionally applied makeup,
and perfectly coiffed hair. Despite her somewhat homely face, Suzanne had a model’s
figure—tall and lithe—and she was typically seen wearing the latest and greatest of
fashions.

Tad was Suzanne’s trophy husband, a stud to court her around to all the various social
functions she attended. I’m not sure how the two of them hooked up, but given Tad’s
non-thoroughbred family tree and his lack of riches, I suspect Suzanne fell hard for
him at one time and had truly loved him. Whether or not she still did was anyone’s
guess. And I can only speculate on Tad’s motive for marrying because he never discussed
it, though I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that money played a significant role in
his decision. If it had, it wasn’t enough to satisfy him anymore. He and Suzanne lived
in the penthouse of a ritzy condo development that wasn’t too far away, and Tad’s
office was just around the corner from my bar. To his credit, Tad had established
and owned his own business before he ever met Suzanne. But her influence brought him
a whole new brand of client, people who came from a much higher financial and social
echelon than what Tad had been used to. From what I’d heard, his business was very
successful, but how much of that was due to Suzanne’s influence and how much of it
was Tad’s own doing, I didn’t know.

Tad’s trips to my bar—always alone and, according to him, often under the guise of
working late—were becoming more frequent, and his complaints about his marital “prison��
were growing both in number and ferocity. From things he’d said and little hints he’d
dropped, I’d gathered that Suzanne was holding a tighter rein on the family money,
and I knew that some recent investments Tad had made with his own money hadn’t panned
out the way he’d hoped.

I walked up to Tad’s table as soon as he sat down and instantly felt a slight push
on my shoulders that I recognized as a synesthetic cue. It meant something about Tad
was different and it only took a second to figure out what it was. Tad typically wore
eyeglasses with a large, tortoiseshell frame, a pair his wife picked out for him claiming
they were retro and therefore “in.” I hated the way they looked on him and the sight
of them always triggered a sour smell that started like a whiff of wine and then shifted
to vinegar. Tonight there was no smell and I saw that Tad was wearing new, wire-framed
specs that looked much better on him.

“New glasses,” I said with a smile. “I like them. I never much cared for those tortoiseshell
things.”

“Thanks,” he said. I then introduced Duncan using the agreed-upon story. Tad gave
him a quick nod of acknowledgment before turning back to me and getting straight down
to business. “I heard about the dead body. How horrible for you, Mack.”

“Yes, it’s been a very scary thing,” I agreed.

“Was it anyone we know?”

I nodded. “Ginny Rifkin.”

Tad immediately paled and started tearing at the cocktail napkin I’d set down on the
table. “Ginny? Really?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Any idea who did it?”

“Not yet, but the police are looking into it. I should warn you, I gave them your
name since you were in the bar last night. So don’t be surprised if you hear from
them.”

Tad’s eyes darted between me and Duncan. “Why would they want to talk to me?”

“I think they’re talking to everyone who was in the vicinity. I wouldn’t worry about
it too much. What can I get you tonight?”

My attempt to distract him seemed to work, at least temporarily. He dropped the tiny
remnant of napkin he was holding and pushed the pieces together into a pile. “Sorry,”
he said with an awkward smile.

“No problem.” I gave him another napkin and swept the torn pieces off the table into
my hand.

“I think I’ll start with a whiskey sour, and let me have an order of cheese curds.”

“Coming right up,” I said, and then Duncan and I hit up several other tables for orders
before heading for the bar.

After dropping off the food orders and delivering all the drinks, I rendezvoused with
Duncan in my office.

“So this Tad guy has new glasses?” Duncan said. I nodded. “Since when?”

“Since yesterday when I saw him,” I said, giving him a puzzled look. “Why are you
so interested in Tad’s glasses?”

“Can you describe his old ones?”

“They were heavy framed, rectangular things with a brown and yellow tortoiseshell
pattern. Why do you want to know?”

“I’ll tell you later,” he said. “Right now I want to ask you something else about
Cora. I noticed you seemed a bit . . . out of sorts when we first got to her table.
What was that about?”

I cursed under my breath, angry that Duncan has been astute enough to pick up on my
reaction, though a good portion of that anger was also due to him brushing off my
questions about Tad’s glasses. “I had one of my synesthetic experiences, a sound.”

“What kind of sound?”

“Chiming bells, in a specific pattern. Almost but not quite a song.”

“And that bothered you?”

I shrugged and after a moment’s thought I decided to come clean. “It did a little,
because I heard the same exact sound when I was in the alley this morning, when I
found Ginny’s body.”

“Does that mean something?”

“It means there is some kind of connection between the two women, something they have
in common.” I saw him open his mouth and anticipated his next question. “But I don’t
know what it is,” I said, holding up my hand in a halt gesture. “So don’t ask.”

“Tad seemed pretty nervous, don’t you think?” Duncan said, shifting subjects.

“He did,” I admitted. “I suppose the knowledge that someone you know was brutally
murdered nearby would do that to a person.”

“You seem defensive.”

I folded my arms over my chest and sighed. “I suppose I am,” I said. “But with my
father gone and no other nearby relatives, these people are like family to me. They’re
all I have. I suppose that probably seems pathetic to you, but that’s the way I feel.
I’m trying to be objective, but I’m finding it hard to believe that any of these people
could be a killer.”

He walked over and put his hands on my shoulders, and his touch triggered a vision
of radiating blue light. “It’s not pathetic,” he said. “It’s actually rather sweet.
But the fact remains that in all likelihood Ginny Rifkin’s killer is someone you know.
I just don’t want to see you turn a blind eye to the potential danger here.”

I nodded reluctantly. “You’re right. I guess you’re not the only one who needs to
keep an open mind.”

“Atta girl.” He dropped his hands and then said, “So tell me about Tad.”

I told him what I knew about Tad’s marital situation while I had a little internal
debate with myself about whether I should share some other information that was a
bit more damning. It wasn’t an easy decision. Debra wasn’t the only one who heard
about people’s problems; such commiserating was a common event. Bartenders often joke
about being society’s cheap alternative to a shrink, and while there is no such thing
as bartender privilege when it comes to shared confidences, I felt a certain sense
of duty about the secrets that had been entrusted to me.

Still, this was an extraordinary situation and I convinced myself that it called for
extraordinary actions. So I told Duncan what I knew.

“A year or so ago, Tad invested heavily in a piece of rundown commercial real estate—an
abandoned dry cleaners—because someone gave him an insider tip that an investor was
interested in the area for a future condo project. Tad hoped that the income from
the sale of the property, which he bought under a convoluted corporate structure he
set up to hide the purchase from his wife, would give him enough money to finally
escape his marriage. Unfortunately some of the other properties in the area refused
to sell and the condo project fell through, leaving Tad’s little corporation struggling
on the edge of bankruptcy.”

“I don’t suppose Ginny was his Realtor?”

“To be honest, I don’t know. But I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she was because
Tad never seemed very friendly toward her.” I glanced at my watch. “Food should be
ready.” I headed for the kitchen and discovered Helmut shuffling orders like a Las
Vegas croupier. My orders weren’t quite ready yet so I chipped in to help by managing
the fryers while Helmut tended to the sandwich and pizza orders. Duncan, who had followed
me into the kitchen, took out his cell phone, wandered off to a far corner, and made
a call. As I set about lining the baskets the curds would go in, I tried to eavesdrop.
I couldn’t hear everything that was said, but I did hear Duncan mention Tad’s name.

Missy came into the kitchen just as Duncan was disconnecting his call. “We’re getting
busy out there,” she said, tossing her long bangs to one side and tossing more orders
at Helmut. Her face was red and damp with sweat. “Everyone seems to be ordering food.
I think they’re all curious about the murder and they want to hang out longer to see
what they might see or hear.”

I divvied up the cheese curds among the baskets and when I turned to get a tray to
put them on, Duncan bent down and whispered in my ear, “I’ve got some guys at Ginny
Rifkin’s apartment as we speak. They’re looking through some papers and computer files
to get a list of her clients. We’ll see if Tad’s name pops up.”

Missy, seeing Duncan whispering in my ear, gave me a sly wink. Then, since Duncan’s
back was to her, she pointed at me, thumped an open hand over her heart a couple of
times, and wiggled her eyebrows. I rolled my eyes at her and frowned. Helmut, fortunately,
was too busy to notice this little exchange.

Duncan and I served Tad, who had already finished off his first drink and ordered
a second, and then we served the rest of the tables. Over the next hour or so, we
continued to chat with customers and run back and forth filling drink and food orders.
The place was abuzz with the news of Ginny’s murder, and several times I caught Duncan
eavesdropping on conversations. Tad drifted to the bar once he was done eating so
he could listen and participate in the ongoing buzz about Ginny. Cora, never one to
let an opportunity pass her by, wandered into the pool room, where a group of business
types wearing dress shirts with rolled-up sleeves were playing a game.

Several times I had a synesthetic experience where I saw jagged lines in a soft gray
color race across my field of vision. After the third time, I figured out it was triggered
by Duncan’s cell phone. Though I wasn’t aware of it on a conscious level, I must have
been able to hear it vibrate because each time the lines appeared, he would step away,
take out his cell phone, and talk to someone. It was after one of these conversations
that he took me aside and informed me they had found Tad Amundsen’s name in Ginny’s
client list. Had Ginny been the one who gave Tad the tip that led to his purchase
and ultimate downfall? And if so, had Tad killed her out of revenge?

All this focus on death and murder was starting to get to me. I felt jittery and nervous,
as well as guilty, for pulling one over on my customers with Duncan. I knew it was
a necessary evil; the killer had to be found and hopefully it wouldn’t be anyone I
knew. But so far, the list of potential suspects bore a disturbing similarity to my
customer and employee rosters. Several times I watched Gary, looking for some hint
of guilt, some sign that he was someone other than who I thought he was. But although
he seemed to be in a bit of a funk and scowling a lot, I didn’t notice anything. I
also studied Cora and Tad when they were otherwise occupied, trying to imagine either
one of them turning into a ruthless, cold-blooded killer.

It was going to be a long, interesting night.

Shortly before eight o’clock another of my regulars, Lewis Carmichael, showed up.
Lewis and I had connections outside the bar, connections I preferred not to think
about. He was a thirty-something, divorced ER nurse who worked at a nearby hospital,
and he was on duty the night my father was brought in. Lewis was the last person my
father saw or spoke to before he died.

Though Lewis came into my bar several times a week, he rarely ever spoke to me beyond
the casual greeting or comment about the weather. He triggered painful memories for
me and he seemed to sense that. It was as if we had this silent tacit agreement to
be polite but not engage unless absolutely necessary. Occasionally he socialized with
other people in the bar, but most nights he seemed content to sit alone at the bar
and people watch. I was pretty sure he had a crush on Missy because he was always
making innuendo-laden comments to her, comments that unfortunately zipped right over
Missy’s head most of the time. With his receding hairline and short, somewhat pudgy
build, Lewis didn’t turn many women’s heads.