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WINOS AND RIFFRAFF turned out to be a classic, beach-town dive bar. The ramshackle building was sagging and weather worn, huddled off the side of Highway 101 all by its lonesome, surrounded by a large, gravel parking lot filled with rusted pickups and cars with multicolored door panels.
The minute I opened the door, the din hit me. The screech of the dying sound system almost drowned out the band and people trying to shout over the top of each other. It was dim, lit in an eerie, bluish lighting that made everyone look like zombies. Cheryl made a face and stuck her fingers in her ears. I couldn’t blame her. The noise level was deafening. Even worse was the stench of stale beer and, under that, the faintest odor of vomit and backed-up sewer lines. I desperately wanted to turn around and walk out, but we had a job to do.
I stood just inside the door and scanned the crowd for Mrs. Archer, but I couldn’t see a classy, silver-haired lady anywhere. Mostly it was locals in flannel, fleece, and worn jeans, leather-clad bikers on a road trip, or overdressed tourists from Portland. I definitely had a hard time picturing Glennis Archer in a place like this. Glennis Clay, on the other hand...
A local band was on the stage playing a bizarre cross of country and hip-hop that made my ears bleed. They played loudly and enthusiastically, but not terribly well. A few brave souls littered the dance floor, swaying to the heavy beat, but most of the patrons huddled around the bar, booths along the back wall, or the small round tables taking up most of the floor. They were far more interested in their beer than in the music.
I sauntered toward the bar, my feet sticking to the floor as I walked. I didn’t even want to think about what was living on that floor. Cheryl followed close behind. She looked nervous. I hoped I didn’t look as nervous. A place like this you could get eaten alive. I swaggered to the nearest empty barstool and hoisted myself onto it, nearly toppled off, righted myself, and gave the hunky bartender a sexy grin and a hair flip. He stared me down, unimpressed. Clearly he had no taste.
Cheryl perched on the stool next to me with a great deal more grace. The bartender eyed her with interest. Figured. But maybe she’d get a date out of this. That would be something. The girl was still mooning over Max What’s-his-name. They’d really hit it off in Florida, but the minute the conference was over, he was on his merry way. Men.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender shouted over the raucous.
“Blackberry bourbon. On the rocks.” I shouted back. He didn’t even look at me.
“I’ll have a martini.” Cheryl gave him a big smile.
“Sure thing, little lady.”
Her smile turned to a scowl as he turned to make our drinks. “Did he just call me—”
“Yep. He sure did.” I could practically see the steam rolling out her ears.
“Why, that...” She half stood from her stool.
I grabbed her and pulled her back down. “Hey, at least let him make us our drinks before you punch his lights out.”
She sat down, clearly still fuming. She mumbled something which I couldn’t hear. Probably for the best.
The bartender returned with our drinks. He gave Cheryl a long, slow look. I think it was supposed to be sexy. I could tell she was trying not to strangle him.
“You have fun,” I said, sliding off my stool. “I’m going to mingle. See if I can spot Glennis.”
Cheryl opened her mouth, probably to argue, but I squeezed between a couple of dancers and hurried away before she could say anything. No doubt I’d get an earful for abandoning her, but we were on the job here.
I strolled around the edge of the dance floor, carefully eyeing each patron. I saw no one who resembled Glennis Archer. Maybe the nosey neighbor was wrong. Maybe Mrs. Archer wasn’t at the Wino. Maybe she was at some other club or bar in some other town.
And then I spotted silver hair. I stopped dead, stunned. The woman was clearly Glennis Archer, but she looked nothing like her photo. Instead of sleek hair, understated makeup, and an expensive suit, her hair had been spiked up with gel. She had more makeup on than one of those TV evangelist women, and she was wearing black leather pants and a sequined top, of all things. But what really caught my eye was the particularly bright shade of pink lipstick.
Gotcha!
I pulled out my phone to text Cheryl, but had no signal. What kind of bar had no cell service? I started back to the bar to grab her when I tripped over someone’s massive, booted foot.
“Hey, little lady,” a voice boomed in my ear. What was with that phrase tonight? “Sorry, about that.” A beefy hand wrapped around my upper arm and held on a little too long. I tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let go.
“Hey—” I started, then stopped. The man was massive. Probably six foot seven and solid muscle except for a slight paunch around the middle. He had a black bandana tied around his head and a big, bushy, red beard that probably hid a week’s worth of food. I forced down my gag reflex. I’d never been one for beards. “No problem,” I choked out, trying to subtly free myself from the beefy man. He didn’t let go. “Could I please have my arm back?”
“Well, now, I’m thinking not. I’m thinking you should join me and my buddies for a drink.” Beefy gestured to a table full of leering men wearing way too much leather and not nearly enough deodorant.
I threw back my shoulders, which had the unfortunate effect of drawing attention to my ample bosom. “I’m only going to say this once.” Anyone who knew me would know that tone of voice meant danger. “Get your hand off me.”
“Oh, come on,” Beefy said, propping himself on the edge of a table with one hand while still holding on to me with the other. “Be a sport.” He and his compatriots leered at me.
I sighed. “Fine. You asked for it.” I snagged a fork off the nearest table and stabbed it full force into Beefy’s hand. He let out a howl and dropped me like a hot potato.
“Why you little—” He swung. I ducked. His fist planted into the back of the head of a man who’d been standing behind me. The man’s beer sprayed all over half the dance floor. He swung around and, without so much as a word, punched Beefy in the face.
Next thing I knew, there was a full-on brawl. I could see Cheryl’s terrified face at the bar. I waved to her and pointed at the retreating back of Glennis Archer. I knew the minute Cheryl recognized her. Cheryl gave me a thumbs-up and slipped out of the bar after Mrs. Archer.
Meanwhile, things were getting precarious. Someone had picked up a chair and slammed it over someone else’s head. Unfortunately, the chair was metal, so there was quite a lot of blood. Some of it hit my shoe. Ew.
I tiptoed around the mess, trying to wend my way through the teaming crowd without getting any more involved than I already was. A fist flew my direction, and I dodged to the right, stepping on someone’s foot. The foot kicked out, but I darted to the left, narrowly avoiding it. It connected with someone else, and the brawl spread.
By the time I made it to the door, the music had finally stopped and the bartender was shouting into a cell phone. Probably to the police. How did he have cell reception in here? I slipped out the door and into the dimly lit parking lot and let out a massive sigh of relief.
Scanning the lot, I caught sight of Cheryl standing next to a snazzy little roadster, arguing with the occupant. I strode over, ready for battle.
“You can’t leave,” Cheryl was saying.
“I most certainly can, young woman. Now move out of my way or I’ll run you over.” The imperious tone could only belong to our quarry.
“Glennis Clay Archer, I presume?” I said, leaning up against the side of the car and poking my head through the passenger window.
She turned to stare at me. “Who on earth are you?”
I reached in, unlocked the door, and slid into the passenger seat. It was surprisingly comfy. “Viola Roberts.”
“What are you doing in my car? Get out or I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Call the cops? Have your face plastered all over the morning paper? I don’t think so.”
Her expression grew tight, face pale. “What do you want?”
“I’ve got a few questions for you. No biggie.”
Her jaw muscle flexed. “I can’t stay here. I need to leave before the authorities arrive.”
She was keeping her posh tone, but her outfit was total white trash. “That’s fine. I’ll ride along with you while Cheryl follows.”
Glennis opened her mouth to protest, but I gave her a look.
“This is highly irregular,” she muttered.
“So is murder.”
“Murder?” she screeched. “You’re going to murder me?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” I snapped. “I’m a writer, not a killer. I’m talking about The Louse.”
She blinked, confused. “Who?”
“August Nixon.”
“Oh, him.” She rolled her eyes. “I should have known. The Louse is an accurate name for him. There’s a diner down the road. Will that do?”
“Works for me.”
––––––––
“YOU HAVE TO UNDERSTAND, I can’t have this getting out.” Glennis kept her voice low, head tilted away from the rest of the diner so that her hair hid half her face. “I have a certain reputation to uphold. My business depends on it.”
“Mrs. Archer—” I broke off as the waitress appeared to take our orders.
Makin’ Bacon was a cleverly named fifties-style diner on the east side of Highway 101, halfway between Winos and Astoria. It would have had a great view of the ocean if the other side of the highway hadn’t been a veritable forest of fir trees. Outside it was windy, cold, and rainy, turning the muddy parking area into a thick soup. Inside it was toasty warm, steaming up the windows until you couldn’t make out anything but a vague glow from the outside lights.
The floor was a classic black-and-white checkerboard, though the white had been scuffed enough to turn it grayish. The walls were mint green to match the faux leather booths. The white Formica tables matched the counter. The glass dessert display was filled with every kind of pie you could possibly imagine from classic marionberry to Southern-style sweet-potato merengue. Behind the counter was an old-fashioned milkshake machine that was clearly still in use. The air was perfumed with a myriad of scents from maple syrup and pancakes to fried chicken with an undertone of burned coffee and dried ketchup.
The waitress poured our requested cups of coffee, confirmed that we wanted nothing else, and sauntered away, her strawberry-blond ponytail swinging cheerfully. I made sure she was far enough from the table before continuing the conversation.
“Listen, we don’t want to out you or anything, but we have some important questions for you about August Nixon.”
“Fine.” She took a delicate sip of coffee, every inch the lady of the manor despite her appearance. “Ask away.”
I nodded and sipped my own coffee before nearly spitting it out. In a state known for its coffee obsession, some restaurants sure hadn’t got the memo. I subtly pushed the mug away. No way was I drinking that swill. Maybe I’d have pie instead. The cardamom rhubarb with bourbon crust looked tasty.
“The night of the murder, I noticed two empty wine glasses on Mr. Nixon’s desk. One of them had lipstick on it. A very particular shade of lipstick.” I gave her mouth a pointed look. She touched her lower lip self-consciously. “In addition, there was an appointment noted in his calendar with a Mrs. A. His son confirmed that you, Mrs. Archer, are a patron of the museum and frequently met with Mr. Nixon.”
“Fine. It was me. I met with August at seven o’clock the night he died. But he was very much alive when I left.”
“When was that?” Cheryl asked. She’d pulled out a notebook from goodness knew where and was jotting down notes. I’d turn her into a proper investigator yet.
“Just after seven thirty. I had a dinner appointment at eight and didn’t want to miss it.”
“Half an hour. That’s not very long for a glass of wine,” I mused.
She gave an aggravated sigh. “The truth is, I barely touched my wine. If the glass was empty, August likely finished it off. I was too upset to drink.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Do tell.”
She stiffened. “I don’t think it’s any of your business.”
“No,” I agreed. “But then neither is the fact you like to spend Friday nights in a low-class joint like the Wino, but I do happen to know about it.” There may or may not have been a slight edge of warning in my tone. Would I really rat her out? Probably not, but she didn’t know that, and I wasn’t above making threats if it meant saving my friend.
Glennis ground her teeth. “Fine,” she spat. “If you must know, I was there to inform August that I could no longer function as patron of the Flavel House. I was withdrawing my financial support.”
“Why?” Cheryl blurted, eyes wide. “It must be an amazing tax write-off.” Trust Cheryl to be practical about such things.
“It is,” Glennis admitted. “But lately...” She swallowed, her fingers strumming nervously on the table, though she seemed unaware of it. “Lately things have taken a bit of a downturn. The company is struggling. It’s temporary, but I need to put money into the business. Besides which, I’d heard some...unsavory rumors.”
“Unsavory rumors? About August Nixon?” There may have been a slight bit of sarcasm in my tone.
“Yes.” She stared into her mug. “You must understand, I have no proof of this, but if what I heard is true...well, it doesn’t look good at all.”
“What?” Cheryl and I blurted out.
“I assume by now you know of August’s gambling debts?”
We both nodded.
“According to my sources, he was in a bind to pay those debts quickly and quietly...or else.” She drew a finger across her throat. “You get my meaning.”
We did.
“August Nixon has been stealing from the museum for months.”