Murder on the Rocks (8 page)

“No,” I admitted. “He claimed he went straight home to his apartment after leaving
the bar that night, dropped into bed, and fell asleep. Since he lives alone, there
was no one who could vouch for his story.” At the time of my father’s murder the cops
had questioned me at length about Billy’s relationship with my father, but there was
nothing there for them to latch on to. Billy adored my father. Everyone did. Well,
everyone except his killer.

“A couple of the other detectives talked with Mr. Hughes earlier today and he has
no alibi for much of last night, either,” Duncan said. “I don’t have a definitive
time of death for Ms. Rifkin yet, but the ME gave me a range between four and six
this morning. Mr. Hughes can’t prove where he was after leaving your bar last night
at two-thirty and arriving at an eight
A.M.
class this morning.”

I started to speak up again in Billy’s defense, knowing in my heart that he wasn’t
the kind of monster who could kill someone in cold blood, much less two someones.
But I also understood Duncan’s need for an open mind and decided it was best to let
him sort through things on his own.

Per our plan, I introduced Duncan to Billy as a family friend in need of a job, making
no mention of Duncan’s real vocation or reason for being there. Billy greeted Duncan
amicably and then with a whispered aside as he surveyed the remaining crime scene
techs said, “The cops already questioned me. Came to my place a little while ago and
asked me for an alibi, which I couldn’t give them. I heard it was Ginny.”

“It was,” I said. Billy looked understandably edgy and I felt a need to reassure him
despite knowing that he was, at least for now, high on the list of suspects as far
as Duncan was concerned. But Duncan beat me to it.

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” he said. “I’ve dealt with this kind of thing
before and they consider everyone a suspect in the beginning.”

I shot Duncan an amused look. “You make it sound like you’ve been a suspect yourself.”

“I have,” he said, winking. “But we’ll save that story for later.”

Billy eyed Duncan warily a moment and then shrugged. “Well, welcome aboard. Let me
know if I can be of any help.”

I explained to Billy that the alley was off limits and then directed his attention
to the crime scene tech with the fingerprint scanner. “They’re getting prints on everyone
who works here,” I told him. “It’s so they can rule people out.”

Billy shrugged again, turned on his megawatt, chick-magnet smile, and said, “Whatever.”
Then he made his way over to Jenny.

I breathed a sigh of relief that at least one employee seemed to be cooperating, but
I suspected it wouldn’t be long before things turned awkward. Sooner or later I’d
have to send Jenny into the kitchen to get Helmut’s prints, but I figured I’d wait
before scaring the poor child to death. As it turned out, Helmut wasn’t the biggest
problem.

More employees arrived and I introduced Duncan to Gary Gunderson, who works as both
a bouncer and a backup bartender. Gary is bald, tattooed, and built like a linebacker.
His appearance alone does the job on most occasions, but his deep, rumbling voice
scares off any contrarians who aren’t intimidated by his looks. Gary has had to get
physical a few times, mostly with people who are too drunk and too stupid to know
better, but it’s been an exception rather than a rule.

I filled Gary in on what had happened, who the victim was, and that the alley was
off limits. He looked nervous, eyed Duncan suspiciously, and after the introductions
and instructions were done he pulled me aside so that we were standing next to the
door. “It’s not the best time to be bringing in someone new, what with Ginny’s death
and all.”

“Maybe not,” I agreed. “But I’m doing a friend a favor.”

Gary shot a troubled look toward Duncan. “And just how is it you know this friend?”

“His father knew my father,” I said, relaying the story Duncan and I had worked out
earlier. I hoped Gary wouldn’t inquire any deeper and he didn’t. But then I told him
about Jenny and the fingerprinting, and he got angry.

“I’m not doing that,” he said with vehemence. “It’s a violation of my rights.”

“I know it’s a pain,” I countered in the softest voice I could muster. “But they need
our prints to rule us out.”

“Or pin something on us that we didn’t do,” Gary grumbled. “And since I live alone,
I don’t have an alibi for last night. That’s the kind of stuff these cops love.”

“Lots of people won’t have alibis,” I told him. “Hell, I don’t have one.” Gary still
looked ticked so I tried a different tack. “Look, I told the cops all of my employees
would cooperate with their investigation. It was a condition for them letting me open
the bar tonight. So please do it, Gary. I need the money.”

Gary scowled and started to say something more, but a knock on the front door interrupted
him. It was my two cocktail waitresses Debra Landers and Missy Channing. During the
week I could usually get by with just one waitress, a bartender, a part-time cook,
and myself. But on the weekends things got busy enough that I needed to ramp up the
help. Gary unlocked the door to let them in, and Duncan, apparently unwilling to let
us have any more time out of his earshot, joined us.

Debra was a forty-something married mom of two teenaged boys. She typically worked
from eleven to five Wednesday and Thursday and eleven to eleven on Fridays and Saturdays.
Her husband made a decent living as a car salesman but there was little left over
at the end of the month, so Debra’s work money went toward the occasional extras and
a savings account earmarked for her boys’ college tuition. My customers loved her,
not only because she had a fun and charming personality, but because she was a good
listener. She had a knack for helping people sort out their problems, a trait that
earned her the nickname Ann because of her last name. She also loved to bake and more
often than not she arrived at work with samplings of her latest efforts, which she
then generously shared among her lunchtime customers. Tonight she had a tray full
of cupcakes that the dinner crowd would get instead.

Missy, a twenty-two-year-old single mom who lived with her parents, was my full-time
night waitress, working from five to closing Wednesday through Sunday. She was also
the only employee I hired myself and didn’t inherit from Dad. An attractive blonde
with a bubbly personality and a nice figure, she was the flip side of Billy’s coin
when it came to bringing in customers; I’d wager half my male customers had a crush
on her. But on the downside, she wasn’t very bright. She dropped out of high school
her sophomore year because she got pregnant, and two kids later she was still trying
to get her GED. But she had a savantlike ability to remember faces and drinks. If
she waited on you once, the next time she saw you she wouldn’t remember your name
or when she last saw you, even if it was just the night before. Nor could she total
up your drink tab or calculate a tip. But she’d remember what drink you ordered.

“Oh my G-d!” Missy blurted as soon as she was let in. “I can’t believe you found a
dead body in the alley! I mean is that freakish or what? Was it anybody we know?”
She and Debra both stood there wide-eyed, waiting for me to fill them in.

“It was Ginny Rifkin,” I told them. Debra had been working at the bar for three years
and knew who Ginny was, but Missy didn’t, even though she had seen and waited on her
a few times.

Debra muttered a half-whispered “Oh, no, poor Ginny.”

Missy looked from me to Debra and back at me again. “Who is this Ginny person? Do
I know her?”

Gary said, “She’s a local Realtor who was dating Mack’s father when he died. Short
lady, in her fifties, blond bob?”

“Oh, okay,” Missy said, nodding. “She used to come in here and talk to you about selling
the place, right?”

I nodded, surprised Missy knew about Ginny’s efforts.

“She was a Brandy Alexandra,” Missy said.

I leaned toward Duncan and said, “That’s a Brandy Alexander blended with ice cream
instead of shaken with cream. You use an ounce of brandy, an ounce of crème de cacao,
a scoop of vanilla ice cream and only half the usual ice. Top it off with a sprinkle
of nutmeg.”

Duncan looked both confused and annoyed, not surprising since I don’t think he’d had
time to learn what a Brandy Alexander was, or even a plain Alexander for that matter.
Then I realized that Debra and Missy were both staring at him looking equally confused.

“Oh, sorry,” I said. “Where are my manners? I forgot the introductions.”

I introduced Debra and Missy to Duncan, using the same story I’d used with everyone
else. While Missy gave Duncan a slow and brazen head-to-toe assessment, Debra barely
gave him a second look. She was more interested in the murder. “Poor, poor Ginny,”
she said. “How was she killed? And do they know who did it?”

“Well, the who part remains to be determined,” I said. “As to how . . .” I stopped,
remembering Duncan’s instructions about not revealing the details. “You’d have to
ask the cops. No one is telling me a thing.”

Gary snorted. “Yeah, like the cops would ever tell anyone anything,” he said.

Jenny the fingerprint tech joined us then, and when she hit Gary up for his fingerprints
I dragged Duncan away before Gary had a chance to go off again.

I led Duncan into the kitchen and for the next twenty minutes Helmut showed him the
basics of our food prep, grunting out instructions and talking as little as possible.
Duncan tried to engage him in a discussion about the murder, but Helmut didn’t want
to play. He ignored Duncan’s questions and went back to the food prep every time Duncan
tried to change the subject.

When we were done with the food prep training, I took Duncan into my office and shut
the door so I could fill him in on what I knew about Missy, Debra, Helmut, and Gary.
But before I could say a word, Duncan took a phone call. I watched him with curiosity,
hoping to be able to glean what the subject of the call might be, but apparently the
person on the other end was doing all the talking. All Duncan said was “Interesting,”
and just before he hung up, “Thanks.”

When he disconnected the call he turned to me and said, “I’ve had some guys working
on that list of employees and customers you gave me earlier.”

I’m not sure if it was his expression or the tone of his voice, but something triggered
an uncomfortable buzzing sensation up and down my spine. “Yes?” I said, swallowing
hard, fairly certain I wasn’t going to like what I heard next.

“Why didn’t you tell me Gary has a criminal record?”

“W
hat are you talking about?” I said, staring at Duncan. I had a sinking feeling in
my gut as I recalled Gary’s reaction to the idea of being fingerprinted. If what Duncan
said was true, I now understood why Gary had acted that way. Yet I had a hard time
believing my father would have hired a criminal to work the bar. I knew he thoroughly
vetted all of his potential hires, and he was always very safety and security conscious.

Duncan dished the facts. “Gary Gunderson did time ten years ago for a drug-related
crime that included an assault. He was only out for a year before he was arrested
for his involvement in the armed robbery of a convenience store.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Duncan’s expression softened. “You don’t want to believe me, but it doesn’t change
the facts. You didn’t know?”

I leaned back against my desk and saw floating shards of broken glass drifting along
the periphery of my vision. Was it the feel of the hard edge of the desk through my
pants that triggered the visual manifestation? Or the shock of betrayal?

“There must be a mistake,” I said. “Gary has never given me any reason to doubt him.”

“That may be, but it doesn’t change the facts. When did you say your father hired
him?”

“Right before Christmas last year, a few weeks before he was shot.”

“That’s right around the time Gary was paroled. Did he have an alibi for your father’s
murder?”

“He said he was home sick with the flu. I already told you that.”

“That’s what he told you. But there’s no way to verify it, is there?”

“No,” I said, my shoulders sagging. Then I shook my head. “But I still can’t believe
Gary had anything to do with my father’s murder. He was horrified by what happened,
said he felt guilty that he hadn’t been here, and that if he had, maybe he could have
prevented the whole thing.”

“Of course he’d say something like that.”

The tone in his voice made me taste chocolate but it was slightly bitter. I fought
down an urge to go out front and ask Gary about it right away. But I hesitated, in
part because I needed time to digest the information, and also because I needed Gary
at his post for the night. I was in denial and knew it on some subconscious level.
But I chose to deny my denial.

Duncan didn’t make it easy for me. “I’m betting he doesn’t have an alibi for last
night, either,” he said.

My whole body sagged. “He doesn’t. I know because he told me so just a bit ago.” I
glanced at my watch, saw that it was almost five o’clock, and gave Duncan an imploring
look. “I really need to get the place open and I need Gary here for the night. Can
you talk to him about all of this later, after closing?” I mentally crossed my fingers,
hoping Duncan would be willing to postpone any serious interrogation.

“We’ll play it by ear for now,” he said, “but no promises. My guys are going to keep
digging and if they come up with any concrete proof that Gary is involved, we will
arrest him.”

“Fair enough,” I said, like I had any say in the matter. “Shall we get to it then?”

We headed back out to the main bar area and did a few last-minute checks before unlocking
the front door. My place isn’t huge; there’s seating for twenty at the half-moon-shaped
bar, and the tables will comfortably seat sixty more. Most of the seating is in the
main part of the bar, though there are a couple of small tables in a side room where
I have a pool table and a dartboard. Along a hallway in the back by the kitchen entrance
is my office, its door easily visible to the main bar area and the bar itself, and
the rest rooms. At the end of the hallway are three more doors, one to the basement,
one to my apartment, and one that opens onto the alley out back. All of these doors
remain locked, though ever since smoking had to be banned inside the bar, customers
have taken to smoking in the alley and occasionally propping the door open so they
can get back inside.

The bar arrangement and layout easily accommodates my daytime crowd most days, which
is busy at lunch but typically slow in the afternoon. Then it picks up again around
dinnertime and depending on the day of the week, the place may fill up by eight at
night, with some folks hovering to wait for a table to open up. Often times there
are a half dozen customers standing around the pool table or the dartboard, and during
football season people may be stacked three or four deep at the end of the bar where
the big-screen TV is mounted. There have been some nights when I’d wager the bar held
over a hundred people.

My hopes for a profitable night to offset my lost lunchtime income got off to a good
start. My location is not far from the Bradley Center, an indoor arena where a variety
of sports and entertainment events are held, and there are a number of hotels nearby
as well, so business on the weekends is typically good and often a mix of locals and
visitors. Tonight I suspected the mix to lean a little more toward the local side
as curious people dropped in to see what was up. News about the murder had been airing
on TV all day, though without identifying the victim. I decided to start the night
by letting Billy and Gary stay behind the bar and do most of the drink mixing while
Missy, Debra, Duncan, and I waited tables and handled the food orders.

In keeping with his theory that the killer was someone who knew me well, Duncan had
instructed me to try to focus on my regular customers. The first one we waited on
was Cora Kingsley, a forty-something single woman who owns a computer troubleshooting
company and lives in an apartment not far from my bar. She comes in often—five or
six nights a week and sometimes for lunch as well—and has been doing so for the past
four years. Cora is a self-proclaimed first-class nerd who will tell anyone she meets
that she belonged to the chess, math, and computer clubs in high school. She’s extremely
bright, has a master’s degree in some type of computer programming area, and is very
much in demand for her skills both in programming and troubleshooting computer problems.
But you’d never know it to look at her. Cora was about as far from the stereotypical
nerd image as a woman could get. She had a voluptuous figure, an attractive face,
a sexy demeanor, and shoulder-length, wavy red hair, though the color was artificial
and she had a tendency to let her roots show.

As we neared Cora’s table, I heard bells chiming in a specific pattern, one that repeated
itself several times. I recognized it as one of my synesthetic reactions and was about
to dismiss it when I remembered hearing the exact same sound and pattern when I stumbled
upon Ginny’s body that morning. The realization stymied me, and for a few seconds
I just stood there staring at Cora with a curious expression, wondering why I would
hear that sound in both places. I knew the answer; there was a connection of some
sort between Ginny’s body and Cora Kingsley. I just had to figure out what it was.

“Mack, what’s going on? Are you okay?” Cora asked, staring back at me, her eyes wide,
her voice filled with excitement. “I saw the police here earlier and heard that someone
was found dead in the alley. Is that true?” Though her question was directed to me,
she turned to study Duncan and gave him a shameless head-to-toe perusal. A second
later she smiled her approval, began toying with a lock of her hair, and shifted gears
with the smoothness of a racecar driver. “And who might this be?” she asked.

“This is Duncan Albright. He’s an old family friend who needs a job, so I’m training
him on how to tend bar and wait tables until he can find something better. This is
Cora Kingsley, one of my best customers.”

“Well, Duncan, if you need a job, I might be able to help you out,” Cora said, looking
chipper. “Do you have any computer skills?”

“I’m a bit of a Luddite, I’m afraid,” he said. I wondered if this was true or if he
was just saying so to head off Cora’s advances.

“No problem,” Cora cooed. “I’d be happy to take you under my wing, so to speak.” She
punctuated this with a saucy wink and added, “I’ll bet you’re a quick learner.”

We took her order for a BLT with a side of waffle fries and a glass of chardonnay,
and then moved on to the next table, where I introduced Duncan to Joe and Frank Signoriello.
Apparently the brothers were unwilling to wait until tomorrow to get the scoop, and
had decided to come in for dinner instead after their ungracious booting at lunchtime.
The brothers, both of whom had thick salt-and-pepper hair, matching noses they called
their “classic Italian schnozzes,” lively brown eyes, and contagious smiles, were
a welcome sight. They had been patrons of the bar for as long as I could remember
and they were like family to me—two occasionally dotty, but always caring and entertaining
uncles. In their typical fashion, they got right to the point, not bothering to waste
time on polite introductions or other niceties.

“Mack, what the hell’s been going on here today?” Joe said.

At the same time, Frank said, “When are you going to tell us what’s up?”

I smiled at them and ignored their questions long enough to introduce Duncan.

“Old family friend, eh?” Joe said giving Duncan a quick once-over, his eyes narrowing
with suspicion. “How come I never heard Big Mack mention you?”

“Hey, my father didn’t tell you guys everything, you know,” I said quickly, anxious
to avoid further inquiries.

Joe stared at Duncan a second longer and then shrugged him off. “So what the hell
is going on?” he said, turning back to me. “Is it true they found another body out
back in the alley?”

I nodded grimly. “I found her this morning when I took out my trash.”

“Her who?” Frank shot back. “Was it someone we know?”

“It was Ginny Rifkin.”

“No!” Joe said.

“Damn!” said Frank. Then his eyes softened. “Aw, Mack honey, how awful for you after
what happened to Big Mack. I can only imagine how scary it must have been.”

“Do the cops have any suspects?” Joe asked.

“Quite a few,” I said. Then for Duncan’s benefit, just to let him know that I wasn’t
being lulled into any false sense of security, I added, “Even me, it seems.”

Frank dismissed this idea with a disgusted
pfft
and a little hand wave. “Don’t pay them no attention,” he said. “They have to look
at everyone initially. I’m sure having two murders occur behind your bar must look
like more than a coincidence to them, but we all know you couldn’t hurt a fly, Mack.”

“Thanks, Frank.”

“Tell them to look at the insurance angle,” Joe said. “After thirty-five years in
the business Frank and I have seen it all. And I can tell you, insurance is a huge
motive for killings.”

“I’ll be sure to mention that to them,” I said, trying not to laugh. “Would you guys
like to cash in on that free drink and meal I promised you earlier?”

“Nah, maybe tomorrow,” Frank said, waving away the suggestion. “We’ll be regular paying
customers tonight.”

“Okay then, what can I get you?”

They both decided on ham and Swiss cheese sandwiches on rye, and being lifetime Milwaukeeans,
they also ordered Pabst beers, the namesake brew for the Pabst Brewing Company, which
was founded and once enjoyed its “blue ribbon” heyday in Milwaukee. The company left
the state in the mid-nineties and now contracts out its brewing rights to other breweries.
Their abandoned warehouses have been a blight on the city ever since, though rumor
has it they have been earmarked for some unknown urban renewal plan that has yet to
be revealed to the public. But the brewery’s departure did little to deter the likes
of the Signoriellos, who were diehard fans of both the beer and one of my appetizers.
“Bring us some of them cheese curds for a starter,” Joe said as I turned to leave.

Frank rolled his eyes. “That’s going to raise your cholesterol fifty points,” he chastised.
“You know what your doctor said.”

“My doctor is an idiot.”

“The lab tests don’t lie, Joe. You gotta watch what you eat. We ain’t spring chickens
anymore, you know.”

“All the more reason to enjoy whatever life we got left,” Joe said irritably.

Duncan and I walked away while the brothers argued on. After taking drink and BLT
orders from three other tables with patrons I had seen once or twice before but didn’t
know well, we dropped the food orders off to Helmut, had Billy make all the drinks,
and delivered them. Cora gave Duncan the eye when he set down her wine, and the Signoriello
brothers were still arguing when we gave them their beers. Two of the other tables
made initial inquiries about the murder, acted appropriately appalled by the crime,
and then went on to discuss lesser events. I only recognized the male half of the
couple at the third table and from their demeanor and what little conversation I overheard,
I deduced they were on a first date, an occasion that probably didn’t mix well with
a murder discussion. Once all the drinks were dispersed, I led Duncan into the kitchen
to help Helmut with the food prep.

“Well, Cora is interesting,” Duncan said totally deadpan as soon as we were behind
closed doors.

“That woman is a man-eater!” Helmut said over his shoulder. He was busy assembling
sandwiches and when I heard the timer on the deep fryer ding, I went over and pulled
out some waffle fries and cheese curds. “Cora is harmless, but yes, she is interesting,”
I said to Duncan. “Unlike some of my customers, she doesn’t come for the alcohol;
she’s a lightweight drinker and she’ll nurse that glass of chardonnay for an hour
or two.”

“Can’t make much profit off a customer like that,” Duncan said.

“She makes up for her sipping habit by ordering food every time she comes in. But
even if she didn’t, I’d love having her here for no other reason than the entertainment
value she provides. She doesn’t come in here for the food or the drink. Her primary
objective has always been to find a man.”