Murder on the Rocks (21 page)

C
ora started firing questions at me, typing as I answered, both of us speaking in low,
whispery voices.

“Ginny was stabbed. Correct?” Cora asked.

“Yes.”

“With a knife or something else?”

“A knife. A large one.”

“Was the murder weapon found with the body?”

“No.”

“Do you know if they’ve found the murder weapon?”

I sighed. “They not only found it, they’ve determined it came from the set in my kitchen.”

Cora arched her eyebrows, stopped typing, and looked up at me. “That’s not good,”
she said, wincing.

“Tell me about it.”

“Do you know if they found any fingerprints on it?”

“Just mine,” I said, thinking that so far, this clearing-my-name thing wasn’t turning
out quite the way I’d hoped.

Cora turned her attention back to her laptop and started typing again. “Was she killed
in the alley, or just dumped there?”

“Dumped, according to the cops.”

“Do they know where she was killed?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” I glanced over my shoulder again to make sure Duncan was
still occupied, certain he would be upset by the amount of information I was divulging.

“Do you know when she was killed?”

“Yeah, between five and six in the morning.”

“Did Gary have a connection to Ginny?” Cora asked.

I nodded and looked back at Cora, debating just how far I was willing to go with this.
“It turns out that Ginny gave birth to a son when she was a teenager and she gave
him up for adoption.”

“Yeah, the Signoriello brothers mentioned something about her having a son,” Cora
said.

“Apparently she reconnected with him at some point, but he was killed a few months
ago.”

“How sad for Ginny,” Cora said, looking up from her laptop again. “How did it happen?”

“He was in prison and another inmate killed him.”

Cora looked stricken, but also thoughtful. It didn’t take her long to ask the question
I knew was coming next. “So what’s that got to do with Gary?”

“Gary was his cellmate.”

My heart beat three times before she said, “Gary is an ex-con? What was he in for?”

“Robbing a store, though he said he didn’t do it, that he was wrongly convicted.”

Cora scoffed, started typing again, and said, “I’m willing to bet most of the people
in prison swear they didn’t do it.”

“You’re probably right,” I said, wondering if I was destined to become one of them.
I got up from my chair, knowing I needed to get back to work.

“Anything else you can tell me that you think might help, Mack?”

“Well, I’m not sure if I agree but the cops seem to think that Ginny’s murder and
my father’s might be connected somehow. If they are, it suggests that Ginny might
have been a suspect as well as a victim.”

Cora considered that for a few seconds. “So you’re saying she might have been in on
your dad’s murder along with someone else, and that someone else killed her to keep
her quiet?”

“Something like that, yes,” I said, unsure just what I thought. The more I tried to
sort it all out in my head, the more confusing it seemed to get.

“Interesting,” Cora said, sounding excited and typing madly again. “I need to run
two scenarios, one focused on Ginny’s death alone, and a second one that includes
your father and also assumes both deaths are related and may have been committed by
the same person.”

I left Cora to her devices and surveyed the bar. A couple of tables had turned over
while I was chatting so I hit them up for orders and headed for the bar. Billy prepared
the drinks for me—Duncan had disappeared—and I distributed them before heading into
the kitchen to take care of the food orders. I was halfway done with them when Duncan
poked his head in.

“How’s it going?” I asked him.

“Busy. But I’m having fun. I kind of like this bartending stuff.”

“You have a knack for it, and you have the people skills, too, which I’m sure serves
you well in your real job.”

“You spent a long time talking to Cora. Did she have anything enlightening to share?”

So much for going unnoticed
. “Just some stuff that she and the others were discussing this afternoon about the
case.”

“I overheard a bit of their talk earlier. I think the group fancies themselves as
some sort of amateur detective squad, which is interesting, given that they’re all
suspects to some degree.”

“I think that’s why they’re so intent on solving the crime, so they can clear their
own names.”

Duncan considered this for a few seconds and nodded. “That’s a powerful motivator,
no doubt. If that’s the case, you need to be very careful. Make sure you use those
new keys wisely. Don’t be handing out copies to anyone for now. Make sure everything
is locked up tight all the time.”

“I’m starting to feel like I’m in a prison,” I said with a nervous laugh.

Duncan gave me a very serious look and said, “Hopefully you won’t have an opportunity
to find out just how different prison is.”

I had to give Duncan credit; he sure knew how to sober up a moment. And sober is something
you don’t find all that often in a bar.

 

 

The rest of the night stayed busy but largely uneventful. Duncan spent most of his
time behind the bar expanding his repertoire of drinks. At one point he had a group
of people I suspect were mostly off-duty cops lined up at the bar, firing fancy drink
orders at him to see if he could make them without looking up the recipes or asking
for help. There was lots of laughing, a few raunchy jokes, and the occasional drink
disaster, all of which attracted some of the other patrons to the bar group. Duncan
took it all in good stead, doing a remarkable job with the drinks, and the atmosphere
stayed partylike most of the night. Best of all, the drink orders were coming fast
and furious and that made me happy. My profit margin on alcohol is much bigger than
it is for the food.

By the time closing came around, I was exhausted but happy. It had been a good night
in terms of money, with a total take for the day that was several hundred dollars
above my norm. While these higher numbers were a welcome sight, I also knew they were
likely temporary, a fleeting uptick because of the hype surrounding Ginny’s murder.
I began to think that having the local cops patronizing my bar might not be such a
bad thing after all. From what I know about cops after talking to other bar owners
at meetings and conventions, they tend to choose a bar to call home and they are religiously
good customers who eat, drink, and tip well. Plus there was the safety factor, which
was more important to me now than ever. I was going to have to find a new bouncer
and bartender to replace Gary and wondered if that was something Duncan could help
with.

Our after-closing cleanup was a normal one, no talk of murder, suspects, interrogations,
or alibis, and Duncan chipped in and worked alongside the others. He seemed to have
established an easy camaraderie with the staff despite their knowledge of his alternate
agenda, and for a little while even I forgot his real reason for being there.

Once the cleanup was done and the regular staff left, Duncan and I settled in at the
bar with a couple of beers.

“I had fun tonight,” Duncan said. “I can see why you love what you do here. People
get relaxed and they enjoy themselves,
and
they talk more. It’s amazing what some of them will tell you.”

“It has its moments,” I agreed. “Some nights you’re part confidante, part shrink,
part new best friend, part advisor. . . . It’s a great way to get to know people.”

“That it is.”

“Did you learn anything helpful to the case?”

“Only that Cora, Kevin, Tad, and the Signoriello brothers seem determined to solve
it . . . or at least point the finger away from themselves.”

“They do seem to be enjoying their roles as armchair detectives.”

“You mean bar stool detectives.”

I smiled. “Yes, I guess that would be a more accurate descriptor. They came up with
a likely suspect, you know.”

“Did they?”

“They did. It was me.” I looked over at Duncan as I said this and watched his face
carefully.

He looked back at me with a serious expression. “That’s understandable. The evidence
definitely points toward you.”

“They all believe I’m innocent. Do you?”

We stared at one another, his eyes probing mine for what seemed a long time before
he said, “I do, and it’s not just because I like you.”

“Why then?”

“Because I know you’re not stupid. If you had killed Ginny you would have done a better
job of moving the body and disposing of the weapon. And while I do believe you harbored
resentment toward Ginny for taking away some of your father’s time and attention,
I don’t believe you resented her enough to kill her. She made your father happy and
that meant more to you than your own emotional deficit. It’s clear that you were very
close to your father and loved him a lot. Not for a moment do I think you had anything
to do with his death, and my gut keeps telling me these two deaths are connected,
though I confess I’m leaning less that way with each passing day. I’ve got suspects
and motives aplenty when it comes to Ginny, but hardly any with your father.”

“I know. I’ve been trying to think up a reason why anyone would kill him and there
aren’t any. Everyone who knew my father loved him. And that makes me think his killer
had to have been a stranger. But if so, what was the motive?”

“I still think robbery is a likely one. Your father was just savvy enough to go to
the alley door with a gun and keep whoever it was from bluffing or shoving their way
in. Unfortunately, his efforts got him shot and I’m guessing that scared away whoever
was there.”

I shook my head, frowned, and took another drink of my beer. “I still say he wouldn’t
have opened up the alley door at that time of night. He was always very conscious
of my safety.”

“What if he heard someone yelling for help? Maybe the perpetrators fooled him into
opening the door by having someone, a girl maybe, yell for help. Think he would have
opened it then, taking the gun with him for protection?”

That was the first time anyone had suggested such a scenario and when I played it
out in my mind, it made sense. My father would have responded to calls for help, but
he also would have been smart enough to take the gun with him. Because of the noise
I was making in the kitchen, I might not have heard the commotion my father did. Reluctantly,
sadly, I nodded. “That’s a possibility,” I admitted. “And a scary one, because it
means the people who did it are still out there.”

“Which is why I wanted you to get those locks changed sooner rather than later.”

“Thank you for that,” I said a bit grudgingly. “And that reminds me, I need to find
a replacement for Gary. Know of any good bouncers looking for work who can also bartend?”

“I’ll ask around,” he said. “Someone at the station might be able to give me a lead.”

“Thanks.” I finished my beer and slid off my stool to go toss the bottle into the
trash behind the bar.

Duncan took the cue, drained his, and handed me his empty. “So tomorrow you don’t
open until five?”

“That’s right. Are you coming back?”

“Yeah, if it’s okay with you.”

“You mean I have a choice?”

“Of course,” he said, looking a little wounded. “I don’t have to come back, but if
any of your regulars from the suspect list come in—and based on their discussions
today I think several of them will—I’d like to be here to eavesdrop or participate.”

“You’re welcome to come back if you want, and to be honest, I could use the help with
Gary gone.”

“I’m flattered you think I can handle it.”

I smiled at him. “You’ve caught on quite fast. In fact, I think you have a knack for
the work. Even Billy said so.”

“Did he now?”

“He did. And some of my customers are quite taken with you, particularly Cora. You
should ask her out. Behind that brazen, nerdy, flirty façade of hers, she’s really
a fun person.”

“Nah, she’s not my type.”

“No? Then what is your type?”

We stared at one another until he broke into a grin and headed for the door. “You
need to make sure you lock this place up tight tonight, you hear?” he said over his
shoulder.

“I will. I promise.”

I followed him to the main entrance, key in hand. He paused after opening the door
and looked back at me as if he wanted to say something, but either I read the action
wrong or he changed his mind because after a few seconds he turned and stepped outside,
shutting the door behind him. He stood by a front window and watched me until I had
engaged both of the locks. Then he yelled to me through the glass.

“You are.”

“I am what?” I yelled back.

“My type.” And with that he turned and disappeared down the sidewalk.

I smiled, feeling as giddy as a crushing schoolgirl as I went around and turned out
most of the lights in the bar, leaving a couple of wall sconces on in the back hallway.
I checked the alley door to make sure it was locked and thought about locking my office
door, but didn’t. With all the other doors locked and the place empty, I didn’t think
it necessary. But I did make sure the door at the base of the stairs to my apartment
was locked when I headed up, both the key lock and the dead bolt.

I showered and headed for bed, feeling exhausted on the heels of a very busy day and
very little sleep the night before. After a moment’s hesitation, I turned out all
the lights. The lock-change thing had given me a new sense of security, as did the
sight of Duncan once again sitting in his car, parked along the street near the entrance
to the alley. It didn’t matter if he was there to keep an eye on me because he thought
I was a suspect or because he thought I might be in danger. Just knowing he was there
filled me with a warm sense of security that I hoped was genuine, and not just a synesthetic
impostor.