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Authors: Jessie Chandler.

Tags: #soft-boiled, #mystery, #murder mystery, #fiction, #regional, #lesbian, #bingo, #minnesota

Bingo Barge Murder (3 page)

BOOK: Bingo Barge Murder
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She said evenly, “Not that we know of. We have some questions for him. Mind if we sit down?”

Man, when she was working, she was one serious, to-the-point officer. We settled at one of the tables near the window. Kate floated over to us, pixie-like. She glanced at Johnson and then settled her twin lasers on JT. If looks could set the hook, the detective would have been reeled right into Kate’s waiting net.

“Anything I can get you all?” Her words encompassed the table but her gaze remained glued on Detective Bordeaux. Table service wasn’t Hole protocol, but when a hot babe showed up, Kate was willing to go the extra mile. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” she told the detective. “Can I get you your usual?”

I glanced at Detective Johnson, who was busy trying to suppress a smile, and I squinted at Kate, willing her to back off. She ignored me and shot her signature You Are So Back In My Sights gaze at JT, who ordered her usual cappuccino with double espresso while Johnson declined a beverage. Kate gave me a toothy grin and scooted off to make JT her drink.

Perched warily in my chair, I said to JT, “Still a caffeine junkie, huh?”

Silence ensued, and my ears burned in mild embarrassment. I wondered if it was detective modus operandi to ignore the unrequested comments of the interrogated. Detective Johnson bailed me out. He eyed my t-shirt, asking if I’d seen the last Minnesota Wild hockey game. Johnson chatted while I uh-huhed and um-hmmed about the possibilities of the Wild’s chance at playoff action for the upcoming season.

Kate returned with a steaming beverage and handed it to JT, who took a sip. She gave Kate a quick nod of satisfaction, and set the glass mug on the table.

“You haven’t lost your touch, I see,” JT said to Kate.

“No, I haven’t lost any touch at all.” Kate eyed her provocatively. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

JT turned to me as Kate sashayed away. “So, Shay, how long have you known Mr. Cooper?”

I tried to remember if she’d ever run into Coop when she’d stopped by the café, but I couldn’t. It was so odd to hear him referred to as Mr. Cooper. “We grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same schools, and remained friends through adolescent hell.”

Detective Johnson rested his arms on the table, his heavily muscled shoulders bulging under his shirt. “Ms. O’Hanlon, when was the last time you saw Nicholas Cooper?”

Cut straight to the chase, why don’t you? I wondered what the penalty was for lying through my teeth to the cops. However, my Tenacious Protector side had started bouncing around like Tigger on steroids.

“I think the last time I saw Coop was this past Friday. He was getting ready to head over to Pickering Park with his environmental group.” Thank God he mentioned that in the garage. “They were going to protest the removal of some trees.” That much was true. “Is that what this is about?”

The two detectives glanced at each other and then leveled their stares back at me. JT said, her voice silky now, “So you haven’t seen Mr. Cooper all weekend?”

I shook my head as I thought about Coop in the garage not a hundred yards away. I was going straight to hell. No passing GO, no collecting two hundred dollars, and there would be no Get Out of Jail Free cards.

“Is he in trouble?” I stared directly into JT’s eyes. The hard demeanor she presented when she’d first spoken softened, but her features remained impassive. “We’re not sure. An incident occurred at his workplace and we just want to talk to him.”

“What kind of incident?” I said the words as nonchalantly as I could, but my hands were curled tight around the base of my chair to keep them still.

Detective Johnson’s voice rumbled. “Mr. Cooper’s employer was murdered last night.”

“What?” My eyebrows shot up of their own accord, even though this wasn’t news. “You’re kidding. What happened?”

Could they tell I was spewing tall tales? Were they about to whip out the cuffs?

Instead of flashing metal, Detective Johnson said, “We’ve got some video showing multiple persons entering and exiting the office where the murder took place. Your friend was seen on the tape leaving in a rather agitated state.”

Videotape. Could it clear Coop? If it did, why were the cops looking for him? Speaking carefully, I said, “You think Coop killed Kinky? He won’t kill a mosquito. Seriously.”

Johnson hitched an eyebrow. “You know Stanley Anderson?”

Whoa. Open mouth, insert grimy shoe. “I met him a few times when I’ve gone to see Coop at work. And Coop wouldn’t lay a finger on his boss.” I didn’t add that Coop was so grossed out by Kinky that you couldn’t pay him to put a pinkie on the man.

JT eyed me for a beat. “We don’t know who killed Mr. Anderson.” Then her dark eyes softened again for a moment. “You’re sure you haven’t seen Mr. Cooper today, Shay?” Those eyes intrigued me, even as I watched them shift back into assessment mode.

“No, I haven’t.” The lie came a bit easier this time. I wanted to ask them if they had fingerprints off the dauber, but they hadn’t yet told me what the murder weapon was. Man, it was as hard to withhold information as it was to lie. If the cops didn’t have fingerprints, maybe they were just running down all of the people on the video and asking questions. How long did it take to identify fingerprints? Hours? Days?

They peered at me silently. I decided some interrogation of my own couldn’t make matters much worse. Maybe they’d tell me something that we could use to help Coop. “How did Kinky die?”

Johnson shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not something we can discuss.”

Detective Bordeaux dug into her jeans pocket and threw a five on the table. “If you can think of anything that might help us, or if you see Mr. Cooper, please give me a call. Actually, better yet, have him call me.” She handed me her card, eyes still glued to me like a hungry animal patiently waiting for feeding time. I wanted to squirm, figuratively and literally, under that hot gaze. Did she just want information from me?

After thanking me for my less-than-helpful help, the detectives threaded their way through the room to the front door. Before Detective Bordeaux stepped outside, she called out, “Kate, that capp was just like it used to be. Thanks.”

Kate saluted JT, and I grinned weakly. After the door shut amid the chime of bells, I collapsed into the chair with my head in my arms. My mind was a blur of dread and guilt, mixed with some intriguing thoughts about some rather unethical but very hot ways Detective Bordeaux could try to pry the truth out of me. I had no idea if my untimely re-attraction was one-sided, but under different circumstances, I could easily have been persuaded to find out. Unless, of course, Kate beat me to it.

For a half hour,
I dodged the questions Kate kept lobbing about my visit with the Daring Duo. I was relieved when my longtime pal Doyle Malloy stopped in late in the afternoon for coffee and a chat. He was my first, last, and only boyfriend. Convinced he’d turned me into a lesbian, he often laughed about our doomed relationship. He was a Minneapolis detective who only worked high-level homicides. Maybe I could get something out of him to help Coop.

Once he settled at a table, I sat across from him. “So Doyle, you hear about the murder on the Pig’s Eye Bingo Barge?”

“Yeah, I heard about—ah damn!” Doyle swore as the sip of coffee meant for his mouth was sucked up by the front of his white oxford shirt. He swiped halfheartedly at the tan-colored stain.

I stifled a laugh. “Don’t worry. It matches that mustardy-looking smear there by your pocket.”

“I don’t know why I try.” He sighed. “I heard Bordeaux and Johnson are on that one. By the way, Bordeaux’s still footloose and fancy-free, on the market.” He raised an eyebrow at me.

Doyle knew I’d been fascinated from afar by JT when she used to stop in, and for some reason he felt it was his lifelong duty to try to hook me up with someone. In all actuality, he sucked as a matchmaker.

I pointedly ignored his addendum. “Any suspects?” I asked.

“I’m just sayin’.” He held his hands up in appeasement as he narrowed an eye at me. “Anyway, I know they’re working a couple leads, looking for one of the staff members.” Doyle scratched at the stubble on his cheek. “I don’t think I heard who …” He trailed off and looked at me. “Doesn’t Nick Cooper work on that tub?”

Doyle wasn’t what I’d consider friends with Coop, but we’d all gone to school together, and he knew Coop and I were close. “Yeah,” I said, “he does.” Or did, at any rate.

Then Doyle moved conspiratorially toward me, and I almost leaned away from him, afraid of what he was going to say next. He whispered, “Rumor has it the guy was whacked by an unhappy husband, know what I mean?”

Well, that was better than a rumor that an unhappy ex-
employee named Nicholas Cooper beaned Kinky on the melon for firing him.

Doyle finished his coffee and took off. I took the espresso machine apart and put it back together for entertainment until our evening relief arrived.

Kate left with a wave and a promise to pry the big secret out of me in the morning. I exited stage right to hunt down Eddy and Coop, who were at Eddy’s kitchen table knee-deep into supper. While they downed leftovers, I chewed on some antacids I found in one of Eddy’s kitchen drawers. My stomach was usually unflappable, but having
Coop
and
murder
in the same sentence did a number on my gastric fortitude. I briefed the two of them on my exploits with Minneapolis’ finest and Kate the Inquisitor until it was time for me to go find Rocky.

At seven o’clock, I loaded myself into my pickup. After circling Rocky’s block four times, I spotted the familiar puffy green jacket he lived in year-round. A ratty, wool-lined aviator hat sat cockeyed on his head. He leaned against the side of an abandoned building in the semi-darkness, his mouth moving a mile a minute, chatting with the air around him, or maybe with ghostly spirits I couldn’t see. You never know. Relief buzzed through me, almost like having one too many beers. I pulled to the curb and rolled down the passenger window.

“Hey, Rocky,” I yelled.

Rocky’s eyes focused on my vehicle, but he didn’t recognize it, or me. His lips stopped moving, and he froze.

“Rocky, it’s me, Shay,” I said, praying he wouldn’t take off.

He squinted. Then a grin spread slowly across his wide face, exposing crooked teeth. He rushed over to the open window.

“Shay O’Hanlon.” His entire body vibrated happiness in seeing a familiar face. “You drive a pretty blue Toyota Tundra, Shay O’Hanlon.” He ran his fingers over the smooth paint.

“Thank you, Rocky. Are you hungry?”

Rocky’s grin grew. “Always hungry.”

“Hop in. Popeye’s?”

“Popeye’s. My favorite.” He opened the door and clambered in. “Always wear your seatbelt,” he mumbled, tugging the strap across his round body and clicking it home.

The restaurant was on Lake Street, a busy thoroughfare running through Uptown and the lakes area. We pulled into the parking lot and tramped inside. Rocky ordered spicy fried chicken with rice and beans. Food still wasn’t something my insides were much interested in. I procured myself a Coke and we found a table and sat down.

Rocky said in a very serious voice, “I want to thank you for this most delicious meal, Shay O’Hanlon.”

“You’re welcome, Rocky.”

As he burrowed his way through the beans, I asked, “Did you see Coop this morning?”

Rocky looked at me, his oddly beautiful golden eyes big, his mouth full. “Yes, yes I did see Nick Coop, Shay O’Hanlon.” His attention returned to the plate and he shoveled another scoopful in.

Coop had given me some “talking to Rocky” advice. If he felt safe with me, I could ask him questions and he’d do his best to answer. Conversely, if he felt threatened, he’d answer with a single word. If I was lucky.

And where was my luck going to land me? I sipped from my straw and swallowed, considering my next words. “What did you tell Coop about Stanley Anderson?”

His eyes flicked up to me and then to his plate. “I told Nick Coop that Mr. Stanley was lying on the floor in his office. That big bingo marker Mr. Stanley liked so much was on the floor by his head. Gross.” The fork sped to Rocky’s mouth again.

“Do you know what happened to Mr. Stanley, Rocky?” I asked, adopting his name for the dead man.

“You must chew every bite twenty-six times, Shay O’Hanlon.”

Wow. “Uh huh. What happened to Mr. Stanley?”

The chewing didn’t slow, but some food particles came flying out as he spoke. “Someone bonked him on the noodle and killed him.”

“Do you know who bonked him?”

“Must remember to drink when you eat,” he announced, and took a few healthy slugs of his pop, his throat working as the liquid slid down. Then he said, “Nick Coop didn’t hurt Mr. Stanley.”

“I know he didn’t,” I said softly. “Did someone say he did?”

Jaw muscles bunched as Rocky chowed down. “The police people asked me about him.”

I closed my eyes and inhaled, willing my heart not to leap out of my chest. I blinked, then said, “You know he didn’t have anything to do with that, right?”

Rocky hunched over his plate and shoveled another forkload in. “No way did Nick Coop hurt Mr. Stanley. Nick Coop could never ever hurt anything.”

“Rocky,” I said very softly. “Look at me.”

He slowly slid his gaze to mine. I said, “I know Coop didn’t hurt Mr. Stanley. But do you have any idea who might have done this bad thing to Mr. Stanley?”

Rocky’s cheek twitched. “Lots of people were mad at Mr. Stanley, Shay O’Hanlon.” The beans finished, his attention moved on to the rice. He ate one thing at a time, making sure not to mix the different foods on his plate.

I sighed. This was worse than talking to a toddler. “Who was mad at Mr. Stanley?”

Without moving his head he said, “coopmsritabuzzrileyms—,” and trailed off into unintelligible garble as he finished his twenty-sixth chew and swallowed.

“What?”

He repeated his words without taking a breath.

Coop’s name was at the beginning, and a couple of the other names sounded vaguely familiar. Coop had lots of crazy tales about the Bingo Barge regulars, and I figured Rocky’s list had to encompass a few of those bingo nuts.

I pulled a pen out of my pocket and wrote
Coop
on a napkin. I showed it to Rocky, and he nodded enthusiastically.

“Will you tell me the names one more time?” My pen hovered over the napkin.

He gave me a disgusted look but begrudgingly said, “coopmsritabuzzrileymslavonneandsomebig—,” ending in more gibberish. Then he said very clearly, “Buzz Riley’s a very bad man, Shay O’Hanlon.”

I hid a grin and quickly scrawled
Rita
,
Buzz Riley
, and
Lavonne
while Rocky slurped the last of the contents in his cup. Coop had told me some run-ins he’d had with Mr. Riley, and he indeed sounded like a first-class ass. What did “some big” mean? A big man? A big woman? A big bingo ball? “Hey, Rocky, what did you mean when you say ‘and some big’?”

“I am full now, Shay O’Hanlon. Thank you.”

It seemed my Q&A session had come to a close.

Rocky chattered as I drove him home. The names he gave me ran over and over through my head. At his boarding house, he opened the door to get out of the truck, turned to me, and reached for my hand. “Shay O’Hanlon, you are not going to let anything bad happen to my friend Nick Coop.” His beseeching golden eyes just about broke my heart.

“I’m going to try very hard to make sure nothing bad happens to Coop.”

“Thank you, Shay O’Hanlon. Thank you.” He pumped my hand, and was about to slam the door when he turned back to me. “Be sure to rotate your tires every six thousand miles, Shay O’Hanlon.” Rocky gently shut the door and disappeared into his building, leaving me to repeat “coopmsritabuzzrileymslavonneandsomebig” like a mantra all the way home.

_____

I trudged along the rough stone sidewalk to Eddy’s back door and let myself in. I felt drained from the strange emotions of the day. After rousing Eddy from her
CSI
-induced stupor in front of the TV, she led me out to the garage. Once inside the dim garage, she flipped a switch to illuminate it with a single bare bulb.

“So how do you get up there?” I asked Eddy.

“The ladder, child.” Eddy pointed to an old ladder resting against the garage wall. The wooden deathtrap was decorated with varying hues of smeared and dripped paint—remnants of Eddy’s attempts at replicating interior decorating projects she had seen on the DIY network. I had been on that sorry excuse for a ladder helping with a couple of those so-called projects. I’d sworn never to step foot on the rickety contraption again.

Eddy laughed at my terror-stricken expression. “I’m pullin’ your funny bone. You push that there button under the ledge.” She pointed at a shelf of crusty oil cans. I stuck my hand beneath the blackened, grimy plank, and at one corner, felt the nub of a button. I bent over and peered under the shelf. Sure enough, an old-fashioned doorbell was installed on the bottom.

Eddy said, “Push it.”

I pushed. A square of light appeared above us, and one of those retractable, rescue-type ladders slid down to within a couple feet of the garage floor. The opening in the ceiling glowed like a window to the heavens.

Coop’s head popped upside-down through the opening.

“Hey you two,” he said, then disappeared.

Eddy eyed at me. “What are you waiting for? Come on.” She strode over and clambered up the ladder. She never ceased to do way more than I ever could expect. I shut my mouth, which was hanging open, and climbed up behind her.

As my head came through the trap door, I whispered, “Holy. Shit.” Below me lay a musty, filthy double-car garage. The space above was completely different.

A couple of ancient lamps chased most of the shadows away. The room was only about ten feet by twelve with a pitched roof. Rough planks were laid for flooring, and were partially covered with a remnant of outdated orange shag. A neatly made up but ancient twin bed perched in a corner, along with a crib that looked as though it had seen more than its share of tantrums.

For a moment, I wondered if I’d crawled into Doc Brown’s DeLorean and traveled back to the Seventies. A little kitchen setup in one corner had a mini two-burner electric stove, a single basin sink with separate faucets for hot and cold, and a dorm-type refrigerator that was almost futuristic compared to the rest of the kitchen appliances. A modern twelve-inch TV on a two-tier cart sat above a VCR/DVD combo unit. A small camping-style toilet was stashed back under the sloped rafters. From the looks of it, stowaways must only use the emergency john when it was impossible to sneak into Eddy’s apartment.

The entrance from the garage floor was situated near the mini-kitchen. After I hauled myself through the opening, Coop pulled up the ladder and pushed a button that closed the trap door by activating a jerry-rigged electrical pulley. I eyed the contraption, wondering if we could escape if the electricity died or a fire broke out.

BOOK: Bingo Barge Murder
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