Murder on the Rocks (23 page)

The cold and the crawling sensation had me rubbing my arms as I followed Duncan to
his car, the same nondescript, dark blue sedan that had been parked outside on the
street the past two nights. The car puzzled me because I pictured Duncan in something
that was a bit flashier, not a showboat or anything, but certainly fancier than this
ordinary sedan. That led me to wonder if it was his personal vehicle or an unmarked
police car. I wasn’t able to tell because though the interior was as nondescript as
the exterior, I saw no evidence of any police lights or a radio.

The ride was a short one—only a couple of minutes, and the skies opened up seconds
after we got in the car. Thunderous rain on the car roof made conversation nearly
impossible and we rode in silence until Duncan pulled up in front of the bar.

“See you in a bit,” he hollered to me and then he went about trying to clear the inside
of the windshield with his sleeve. Sensing I’d been dismissed, I got out of the car
and dashed to the door, huddling beneath the small overhang while I fumbled with my
new keys. Duncan waited until I had the door open before he pulled away.

The inside of the bar was dark and spooky. I went around turning on lights and the
usually familiar sizzle of the neon signs as they came on seemed to trigger the bigger
sizzle of lightning outside, making me taste little bursts of hot spice, like a bite
into a peppercorn. Flashes of light came in through the windows, triggering a faint
whiff of citrus for me that rapidly dissipated when deep rumbles of thunder shook
the glass.

I looked around, thinking about the whole Capone thing and wondering if it was possible
for something like that to remain a secret all these years later. If I was Capone,
where would I hide something? I looked at the obvious places first: the floor and
the ceiling. The ceiling was a high one, covered with old-fashioned tin plating that
had, unfortunately, been painted several times over. Its current color was a dingy
white, marred by all the years when smoking was allowed inside the bar. I had no idea
if there was space above that tin to hide anything and I didn’t have the means to
climb up there and look. The floor was equally as old: large wooden planks that had
been aged and scuffed to a fine patina. In some places the boards had shrunk and shifted,
leaving cracks big enough to see through. No way was I going to pull up my floor to
see if anything was hidden beneath, but I did walk the entire main floor, looking
for any irregularities that might indicate a spot where boards had been moved.

There were only two areas that fit the bill. The first was a spot behind the bar beneath
the rubber mat by the sink, but this one I knew had already been explored. Two years
ago the sink sprung a leak and the plumber had to take out some of the floorboards
in order to make his repairs. The second was a space in the side room near the wall
where the dartboard hung. Three planks in the floor just below the dartboard were
darker than the rest, and they appeared to be a different type of wood, or at least
from a different source given the visible grain. I couldn’t recall any repairs having
been made there, but I supposed it was possible something had been done years ago
that I couldn’t remember or didn’t know about. As I looked around the rest of the
room, I realized there was a large unexplored area of floor beneath the pool table,
but it was too heavy for me to move alone. Maybe I could tackle it later, assuming
I could convince someone to help me and come up with a reason for moving it that wouldn’t
sound too crazy.

It was just before four in the afternoon, leaving me a little over an hour to get
my preps done before opening at five. I could do it in less time than that so I dug
up a pry bar, a hammer, and a flashlight, and knelt down by the darkened boards at
the base of the dartboard. Five minutes later I stared down through the hole in my
floor. There, in the space between the rafters, I found some old water stains, a pipe
that ran to an outside spigot, and several coins. Unfortunately all of the coins were
modern and ordinary; meaning my reward for my effort was a grand total of thirty-eight
cents—most likely coins that were dropped and rolled down one of the cracks in the
floor—and reassurance that yet another plumbing leak had been successfully repaired.
Feeling foolish, I replaced the boards I’d pried up and nailed them back into place.

Since I had to go down to the basement anyway to bring up some beer for the night,
I headed there next. The combination of the lightning flashes and thundering booms
had my senses reeling, making it hard to focus. I began along the wall where Dad had
stashed and boxed up his papers and such, moving them enough to make sure they weren’t
hiding anything. None of these boxes had been touched since he died, and I had no
idea how long before that they had remained in place. Judging from the layer of dust
I stirred up whenever I moved a stack of boxes, and the many cobwebs that connected
the boxes to one another, as well as to the open studs in the ceiling and wall, it
had been a long time. The feel of the cobwebs on my skin triggered an odd taste that
I could only describe as biting into a towel. I studied the newly revealed floor area
but it appeared to be intact with no evidence of tampering, concrete replacement,
or cavities of any sort. The walls that had been hidden by the box stacks were cinder-block
and they also appeared intact.

The part of the basement where I kept my extra beer and liquor was an area I’d seen
hundreds of times in the process of rotating the stock. I knew there were no defects
or hidden niches in the wall there, and the floor was congruent with the rest of the
concrete in the basement, with no signs of any disturbances or replacements.

There was one other section of the basement I hadn’t searched, a separate room that
my father had used as something of a catchall. It was filled nearly to the ceiling
with junk: toys from my childhood, old dishes and glassware, small appliances that
still worked but had been upgraded or replaced in the bar kitchen, leftover flooring
from a remodel on the apartment years ago, some aged camping equipment my father kept
threatening to use but never did, and God knew what else.

I stood in front of Dad’s worktable and stared across the basement at the catchall
room, knowing I should probably go through it—something I would have to do sooner
or later anyway—but not wanting to tackle the task. The storm raged outside, and bright
flashes of light pierced the gloom through the small basement windows. I saw a synesthetic
image that looked like waves breaking against the shore and couldn’t tell what had
triggered it. The hairs on my arms rose as a parade of goose bumps marched across
my skin. The air had a strong, musty odor to it and I felt that cloying sensation
settle in along my neck and shoulders.

I glanced at my watch and saw that it was close to opening time. Realizing there was
no more time to search even if I wanted to, I went about fetching beers for my bar
stock instead, pushing all thoughts of hidden treasures and vicious killers out of
my mind.

B
ack upstairs, I kept myself distracted and busy with the minutiae of my opening prep.
Billy showed up at quarter to five and jumped in to help, but Helmut, Missy, and Debra
all had the night off. Between that and Gary’s absence, things felt both rushed and
awkward. Billy, to his credit, asked no questions. He just worked. The one saving
grace was the knowledge that Sunday nights tend to be slow and a Sunday night marked
by a huge thunderstorm was likely to be at a near standstill.

Duncan arrived just before five dressed in a denim shirt and khakis. There wasn’t
much prep work left for him to do so I put him behind the bar with Billy.

At five we unlocked the front door to an empty street. A couple of people straggled
in out of the pouring rain five minutes later. They were followed by a handful of
others, a few locals who were willing to brave the weather for a drink, and some out-of-towners
who sought shelter after getting caught in the storm. I did a decent business in food
and mixed drinks—particularly my coffee martinis—in part I think, because of the weather.
People drink beer when the sun is out, but when storms blow in, they tend to seek
the warmth and comfort of something stronger, something to fill the gullet and warm
the blood.

The storm raged off and on, easing for a while as a tease, then ramping up again,
flinging splatters of heavy rain against the walls. The thunder and lightning came
and went with the downpours, and combined with all the other sensory input involved
with a typical night, it triggered a wide array of synesthetic experiences that left
me with a splitting headache.

Cora Kingsley showed up around six, unwilling to let a little weather keep her from
her nightly manhunt, though I wasn’t sure if it was a criminal or romantic manhunt
she was conducting at that point. She brought along her laptop and I expected her
to set it up at one of the tables, but instead she made her way over to the area of
the bar where Duncan was working. She climbed onto a stool and, after ordering her
standard glass of chardonnay from Duncan, she went to work on her laptop. Figuring
her reason for sitting at the bar was so she could ply her feminine wares on Duncan,
I hung around to observe and eavesdrop, easy enough to do since we weren’t very busy,
and figuring it would provide some cheap entertainment. That’s when I discovered that
my assumption about Cora’s motive was way off base.

She took the wine Duncan poured for her, sipped it, and said, “So tell me, Duncan,
how long have you been in the Milwaukee area?”

“A month or so.”

It was a safe enough answer since it was essentially true and would cover him in case
Cora had run into him about town somewhere before seeing him here at the bar.

“And where did you come from?” Cora asked, taking another sip.

“New Hampshire.” This was an answer we had worked out earlier. Duncan said he grew
up in Newport and figured it would be a safe cover story in case anyone started questioning
him about the area. “I grew up in a town called Newport.”

“Did you?” Cora said, smiling. “Live anywhere else between there and here?”

“I spent some time in Chicago,” Duncan said vaguely. “Can I get you something to eat
tonight, Cora?”

His segue was a smooth one, but Cora was a woman on a mission and not about to be
deterred.

“Ah, then that would explain this,” she said. She turned her laptop around so we could
view the page she had up. It was an article in the
Chicago Tribune
detailing a high-profile murder case from last year. Highlighted in the article was
a name, a detective who was working the case at the time and the subject of Cora’s
Internet search: Duncan Albright. “I always do a little background check on any men
I meet who I find interesting. And look what I found on you. Old family friend, my
ass. It seems you haven’t been totally honest with us, Detective.”

“Busted,” Duncan said with ironic good cheer.

“I take it you’re investigating Ginny’s murder,” Cora said, looking smug. “And that
means you think the killer might be someone who comes into the bar.”

“Cora,” I said, ready to apologize for the ruse. But she held her hand up to silence
me, never taking her eyes off Duncan. Then she got down to Cora business. “Are you
married, Detective?”

“I am not,” he said. “And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t call me that.”

“Ah, hoping to maintain your façade?”

“For a little longer, yes. People are bound to uncover the truth sooner or later but
I’d like to keep up the charade as long as I can. I’m sure a woman of your stature
is capable of discretion in many matters, this one included?”

I smiled at Duncan’s cleverness as I realized he was flirting with Cora—the surest
way to buy her cooperation.

“That I am,” Cora said. “I’ll play along for now. And I’d like to help. I have a large
number of online connections and access to an assortment of unusual databases. You’d
be surprised at some of the background information I can dig up on someone.”

“Not surprised at all,” Duncan said. “I pegged you as a multitalented woman the minute
I met you.”

Cora blushed beneath his praise, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “Tell
me something. Am I still a suspect?”

“You are, but you’re pretty low on my list,” Duncan said.

Cora looked thoughtful for a moment before narrowing her eyes. “So do you think I
might have killed Big Mack, too?” Duncan didn’t verify or deny; he simply shrugged.
“Interesting,” Cora said.

The two of them stared at one another for several long seconds. If Cora was bothered
by the fact that Duncan considered her a potential double murderess, you couldn’t
tell it from the expression on her face. In fact, if anything, she looked pleased.

It was Duncan who finally broke the silence. “If you dig up any good info on anyone,
I’ll see to it that it gets followed up on. If it pans out, I’ll make sure you get
credit for it.”

“Fair enough,” Cora said. She grabbed her laptop and turned it back so the screen
was again facing her. She started hitting keys and said, “Want to give me some names?”

“Al Capone,” Duncan said.

I bit back a smile. Cora sagged in her seat and shot Duncan a wounded look. “I thought
you were taking me seriously,” she said. “I really can help, you know.”

“I
am
taking you seriously,” Duncan insisted, studying her closely. “I want to see what
you can dig up on the man and his time in Milwaukee. I think it might have some bearing
on this case.”

For the first time Cora looked at me. “Is he serious or just playing with me?”

“He’s serious.”

“Fine,” Cora said with a roll of her eyes. “I get it. You want to test me first, see
just how extensive my resources really are. Well, just you wait, mister. By the time
I’m done, you’ll know everything there is about our Mr. Capone, from the size suit
he wore to his favorite foods.”

She placed her hands over the keyboard of her laptop and started typing. “Might as
well bring me a sandwich while I’m at it. A BLT will do nicely. Easy on the mayo.
And throw in a side of waffle fries. Light on the salt.” She shot a flirtatious look
at Duncan. “I need to watch my girlish figure, you know.”

Duncan and I turned away and headed for the kitchen. Once we were inside I said, “You
don’t take Cora seriously, do you?”

“Oh, I believe she’ll come up with some good stuff. But I also think she’s a bit of
a kook.”

“I think she truly wants to help,” I said, laying out the lettuce and tomato slices
for Cora’s sandwich.

“I don’t disagree,” Duncan said, popping bread into the toaster. “But again, that’s
one of the best hallmarks of guilt. As I told you before, perpetrators often want
to inject themselves into the investigation to see if the cops are on to them.”

“So how do you tell that from simple morbid curiosity?”

Duncan shrugged. “If you can find an answer to that question, you might put me and
a lot of other detectives out of work.” He cocked his head and stared at me for a
few seconds before adding, “I should probably be worried because I think this little
quirk of yours just might be the answer.”

His comment got me to thinking. What if I could figure out a way to do that? Could
my synesthesia be used in some way to tell the difference? I thought it might be possible,
but first I’d have to focus more on my synesthetic reactions so I could better interpret
and understand them. And after years of trying to ignore and suppress them, I wasn’t
sure I wanted to do that.

The remainder of our time fixing Cora’s plate was spent in silence. When we left the
kitchen, I saw that Cora had traded her spot at the bar for a table. “I got this,”
I said to Duncan, taking the food from him.

I carried Cora’s plate to her table and set it next to her computer, stealing a glance
over her shoulder at the screen. All I saw was a search page of results dealing with
Al Capone. “Cora, do you really have the ability to do background checks on people?”

“You betcha, honey.”

“Have you ever done one on someone you know, someone from here, like the suspects
you plugged into your little whodunit game program?”

“I have looked up a couple of people from here on occasion, mostly men I considered
dating. That included Tad once, though I soon figured out that he would never leave
his wife. But no one else from the group I was with yesterday. Why? Is there something
you want to know about someone?”

I hesitated, certain Duncan would be angry if he knew what I was about to do. But
I decided to go ahead with it anyway. “Yes, there is. Do me a favor and see what you
can dig up on Lewis Carmichael.”

“He took care of your dad when he died.”

“He did, yes.”

“Well, then he couldn’t have killed your dad, and the hunky detective seems to think
the two deaths are connected somehow, doesn’t he?”

I took a cue from Duncan and neither confirmed nor denied. I shrugged.

“Is Lewis a suspect in Ginny’s murder?”

“He’s on the list because his name turned up in her database. One of many, I might
add. It’s probably nothing, but I’d like to see what you can find on him.”

“Will do, honey. Give me a day or so and I’ll let you know.”

“And one more thing,” I said, glancing over at Duncan, glad to see him busy taking
other orders. “Keep this one just between you and me, okay? No need for the detective
to know.”

Cora flashed me a knowing smile. “You got it, honey. This one will be just between
us girls. But I’d like a small favor from you in return.”

I nodded and braced myself, knowing anything was possible when it came to Cora. What
would it be? Duncan’s private phone number? Free chardonnay for a year?

“Either give poor Zach a chance or kick him to the curb, would you?” she said. “If
you could see the way that man looks at you, the hunger in his eyes. It kills me to
watch him. He wants you, Mack, and he’s been very patient about waiting until you
feel you’re ready. But he won’t wait forever. And if you don’t want him, let him go
so I can have a try at him.”

I smiled, knowing she was right. It wasn’t fair to keep stringing Zach along, but
I wasn’t sure I was ready to make a commitment to him either. My initial reluctance
had been because I was so drained by my father’s death, but lately I’d felt as if
I might finally be ready to open my heart to someone again. Zach was the obvious choice,
but now Duncan Albright had dropped into my life, muddying up the waters.

Cora seemed to read my mind. “I know that detective is a cutie, and no doubt he’s
made a play for you the way he has the other women.”

“The other women?”

“Well, yes. He’s been flirting up me, Missy, Debra, and anyone else he thinks might
give him some information. It’s quite flattering and all, but it’s pretty obvious
he’s only doing it in an effort to manipulate all of us. You know, get us to feel
special and all up-close and cozy so we’ll divulge all of our deepest, darkest secrets
to him.” She glanced over at Duncan and sighed. “With those looks and that hint of
an accent he has, which I’m not sure is even real, by the way, I’m betting he solves
a lot of his murders by flirting.” She smoothed her hair down, her hand lingering
on her neck, still staring at Duncan. “Hell, one wink and a smile from him my way
and I’m ready to confess to stuff I haven’t even done.”

Cora finally shifted her attention back to me. “So, give Zach a chance, Mack. He seems
like a decent enough guy and you’ve been on your own long enough.”

“I’ll give it some thought,” I said, turning away to hide the deep flush I felt creeping
down my face and over my shoulders. Her words made me feel stupid and naïve. Of course
Duncan’s only interest here was to catch a killer. How could I have been so foolish
as to fall for his flirtatious banter?

I left Cora and headed for my office, needing a place to hide for a few minutes to
get myself together. I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, my eyes squeezed
closed. My mind flashed back to the moments I’d shared with Duncan, moments I thought
had indicated a mutual attraction. There were plenty of times he appeared to be flirting
with me, but when I thought back to the specific incidents I could remember, I realized
he was also asking questions each time. Had he simply been buttering me up, hoping
I’d drop my guard and say something incriminating? And what about parking outside
at night after the bar closed? Was that because he was concerned about my safety,
or because I was his primary suspect and he wanted to make sure I didn’t get away?
Were the cops tailing me to protect or to watch? Had I misread everything in my own
misguided attempt to convince myself that my attraction to Duncan was reciprocated?