| |
––––––––
“SO YOU DIDN’T get anything out of them?” Martin uncorked a bottle of fine sipping tequila—the luxury añejo brand I favor and which he kept concealed behind the bar just for me—and dispensed a generous shot into a small snifter, which he slid across the bar.
“I learned nothing I didn’t already know.” I lifted the glass, inhaled deeply, and took a dainty sip of the tequila, which caressed my gullet like velvet fire.
We were in Murray’s Pub, where Martin could be found behind the bar most nights. As always, antique wall sconces bathed the room in a warm glow, and the bluegrass music was kept to a reasonable volume. The original wooden floors, wainscoting, and bar top, scarred but lovingly maintained, exuded the subtle, intoxicating perfume that can only result from more than a century of spilled beer and good times.
It was a little after nine on Thursday night. A few of the barstools were occupied, and about a third of the tables and booths. The padre and I leaned across the bar and kept our voices down to discourage eavesdroppers.
We were discussing my visit to the pub the previous evening for the weekly trivia contest. Sophie and I had, as planned, teamed up with Howie and Cookie. It was Cookie who chose our team name: If You Ask About Stu, We’ll Slap Handcuffs on You. That jolly rhyme was my first clue that the detectives were prepared to resist all my subtle and not-so-subtle attempts to extract information about the case.
It’s not as though I’d been stingy in the sharing department. I’d told them everything about my encounter with Darla that morning. Well, maybe not everything. I might’ve left out the part about satanic rituals and mopping up entrails. It turned out Howie and Cookie already knew about Henry’s fistfight with Stu. Darla’s husband, Gilbert, had told them about it when he was questioned after his brother’s death, and Henry himself had confirmed it.
“Don’t you consider that fight significant?” I’d asked the detectives, while we were supposed to be putting our heads together to come up with an answer to the question: What breed of dog won Best of Show during the most recent Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show? Sexy Beast loves watching dog shows. Or rather, he loves lounging on a pile of pillows on the ivory leather sofa in the family room and barking at the contestants. Alas, SB never thought to tell me who won top-dog honors. Our team’s best guess was Irish setter. The correct answer turned out to be Papillion.
“I mean, I know you guys think it was suicide,” I continued, “but aren’t you obligated to follow up on leads like this?”
Howie set down his beer glass. “Stu Ruskin and Henry Noyer throwing a few punches over a woman ten months before Ruskin’s death is not what we seasoned detectives call a lead.”
Even Sophie tipped her head as if to say he had a point. The traitor.
“Okay,” I said, “but what about Stu stealing Henry’s cookie recipe? That’s another motive. Come on, guys, I’m doing your job for you.”
Cookie said, “That whole cookie thing, Stu selling the recipe to Conti-Meeker, Henry receiving the cease-and-desist letter, that all happened back in December. Five months ago. If Henry was going to murder Stu over that, why would he have waited so long?”
“I’ll tell you why.” I gestured with a French fry. “Henry was trying to keep his bakery afloat that whole time. The Cranky Crumb. He managed to stay in business until a couple of weeks before Stu died when he was finally forced to close up shop. That’s when it really sunk in, how Stu Ruskin had destroyed both his marriage and the business he’d spent so many years building.”
Sophie said, “She actually has a point.” Gee, thanks.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” I nodded vigorously. “Darn right I’m right. Now, about that martini glass that was sitting on the rim of the hot tub. I’m assuming you sent it to the lab. Any results yet?”
Unsurprisingly, the detectives had refrained from answering that question. In fact, they’d ignored all further attempts on my part to discuss the case. To add insult to injury, our team had come in last.
Martin listened to me whine for a while about how unfair Howie and Cookie had been. “Hold that thought,” he said, before moving away to pour a pitcher of beer for Poppy and Beau Battle, who’d come in with a couple of young friends.
When he returned, he said, “What do you know about that martini glass?”
“Only that it was no longer there after the cops left.”
But how did Stu get ahold of a cocktail?” he asked. “If no one even knew he was out there in the hot tub.”
“Shelley thinks he snuck into the kitchen and poured himself a drink on the sly.”
“You look like you’re not buying that,” he said.
I shrugged. “I guess it’s not outside the realm of possibility, but something about it just doesn’t ring true. Since the cops are so sure it was suicide, who knows whether they even sent that glass for testing?”
Martin wore the hint of a smile. “They did.”
I slapped my palms onto the bar and leaned forward. “Tell me! What do you know?”
His pale-blue gaze scanned our immediate surroundings, as if to assure himself our conversation wouldn’t become grist for the Crystal Harbor rumor mill. He rested his forearms on the bar, and now we were practically nose to nose. The fresh, masculine scent of his skin teased my nostrils, making me a little giddy. Or maybe it was the tequila. Whatever the cause, I found it difficult to concentrate on what he was saying.
Until I heard the words “lab results,” followed closely by “martini glass.” It seemed his contact in the police department, whoever that was, had come through.
“So, what did they find?” I asked.
“Well, what you and I didn’t notice, because it was so dark out there behind The Gabbling Goose, was a little reddish liquid in the bottom of the glass.”
“I did see a curly piece of orange peel,” I said.
“It was lemon peel. They’re still analyzing the components of the drink, but they did determine there were no drugs in it.”
“So it’s not like someone knocked Stu out with, say, a date-rape drug and then did him in,” I said.
“You told me you didn’t buy it, Stu slipping inside the inn to pour himself a drink, and I have to agree.” Martin’s fingers shifted on the bar top to stroke the tender inside of my wrist. “It would’ve been tricky enough if he was just splashing some vodka into a glass, but a drink that color? With a lemon twist? There’s a bit of mixology going on there.”
“You’re the bartender,” I said. “You tell me. What kind of cocktail do you think it was, and how long might it have taken to throw together?”
“In a kitchen we can assume Stu was not that familiar with. For sure he wasn’t a regular visitor at The Gabbling Goose.”
Martin straightened as a customer teetered up to the bar on four-inch-high platform sandals. I recognized Cheyenne O’Rourke, a local teen who worked part-time at Janey’s Place, Dom’s health-food joint. The only reason she’d been hired in the first place, and had avoided being fired, is that her dad, Patrick O’Rourke, was the manager.
If you open the dictionary to the word shiftless, you’ll see a picture of Cheyenne, complete with the alarming tattoos scrawled on the sides of her neck: the names Brian and Sean (two former beaux), both crossed out with prominent tattooed X’s. Cheaper than laser removal, I suppose.
Oh, but what did I spy, smack-dab on the front of her neck? You guessed it, a brand-new tattoo: the name Neal, executed in big, sloppy letters and surrounded by a jittery heart. How, um, romantic.
Cheyenne had stringy, highlight-striped hair, light brown eyes unclouded by anything resembling deep cogitation, and a doughy figure which she’d stuffed into a yellow, python-patterned crop top and fuchsia leggings adorned with little green iguanas. The stratospheric sandals were faux crocodile. Somehow I just knew the reptilian theme was entirely coincidental.
Martin sighed. “Cheyenne, we’ve been through this. You’re underage. I can serve you a Coke.”
“A lot you know.” She wagged an ID in front of his nose. “I’m twenty-one.”
“Did you suddenly age two years overnight?”
“You can’t refuse to serve me. I got proof.” She tossed the card onto the bar. “Gimme a frozen margarita.”
Martin lifted her ID and examined it, front and back. “This is pretty impressive.”
“No kidding,” she snapped. “Frozen margarita. Use the mango mix. Extra salt.”
To me he said, “This has to be the worst fake license I’ve ever seen. And trust me, I’ve seen a lot.”
“That thing’s real!” Cheyenne cried. “I even checked off that they can take my organs. After I’m, like, dead, though.”
“I hope you didn’t pay too much for this piece of junk,” he said.
“A hundred and—” She clamped her mouth shut and produced her phone. “If you refuse to serve me, I’m calling the cops.”
“Excellent idea,” he said. “It’ll save me the trouble of confiscating this card and reporting you.”
“You can’t do that!” she barked. “That license belongs to me. I got it at the, um... the place where they hand out licenses.”
“It’s too flimsy, for starters.” Martin flexed the card back and forth. “And the features are way out of date. This photo’s in color, not black and white, and there’s no ghost image.”
Her face crinkled in perplexity. “Why would there be a picture of a ghost? You’re making this stuff up.”
“What year were you born?” he asked.
“Twenty...” Cheyenne wore a crafty expression. “Wait. Is that a trick question?”
I could no longer contain myself. “Of course it’s a trick question! Good grief, we all know you weren’t born in...” I took the card from Martin and peered at the birth date. “Ninety seventy-five?”
Her expression turned mulish. “Who says I wasn’t?”
“Oops, what do we have here?” Running my fingers over the card, I discovered that the edge of Cheyenne’s fuzzy glamour shot was slightly raised. I picked at it and easily peeled up her photo, revealing a picture of a middle-aged dude with a mullet and shaggy beard.
“You ruined it!” Cheyenne snatched the card out of my hand. “What am I gonna do now?”
“Here’s an idea,” Martin said. “A little out there, but it just might work. Wait till you’re twenty-one to order alcohol in a bar?”
“You’re the meanest person I ever met.” She sniffled, blinking hard to produce tears.
“Yeah, that’s not going to work,” he drawled. “I strongly advise you to cut up that bargain-basement ID. The next bartender might very well turn you in, and you’re looking at a five-hundred-dollar fine and possible jail time. Is it worth it?”
Cheyenne appeared to give the question serious consideration.
“Okay,” I said, “the answer is no. It’s not worth it.”
“It’s not fair.” She gestured toward my half-empty snifter. “You have a drink.”
“I’m forty.”
Her expression of combined horror and disgust made me want to grab my phone and turn her in myself. It was with profound relief that I watched her stomp out of the pub.
I slumped onto the bar. “That was exhausting. What were we talking about?”
“Stu’s red drink and what it might be,” he said.
I perked right up. “Oh yeah. Thoughts?”
He held up a finger. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
As it turned out, he spent well over a minute mixing Moscow mules for a pair of coquettish twenty-somethings. I told myself he had to respond in kind, that flirting with female customers was, if not a job requirement, then a way to rake in the big tips. He couldn’t possibly want to compliment the blonde’s sparkly, cleavage-baring sweater or ask the redhead where she’d been keeping herself. Right?
When he rejoined me, he grabbed a rag and started wiping down the bar. So much for tickling the inside of my wrist. “There are literally dozens of red or pink cocktails, Jane. Most of those fancy drinks have a garnish, often a lemon twist. Some are traditionally served in martini glasses, others in a DOF or some other kind of glass.”
“DOF?”
“Double old-fashioned. So to answer your question, it would have taken a few minutes for Stu to locate the ingredients in an unfamiliar kitchen, mix them in a shaker, and cut a lemon twist. Even for something as simple as a Cape Cod.” At my questioning look, he added, “Vodka and cranberry juice. It’s usually served in a highball glass, if that matters.”
“You knew Stu,” I said. “You tell me. Was he bold enough to waltz into the kitchen belonging to his, for all intents and purposes, blood enemy and calmly mix a cocktail while there’s all that activity going on in the front room?”
“Stu Ruskin,” Martin said, “like most criminals, was a coward at heart. The kind of guy who’d refer to a simple fistfight as an attempt on his life.”
“The kind of guy who’d hire a bodyguard to protect him from the mean man who punched him,” I said.
“The kind of guy who, after the bodyguard quits in disgust, buys a big gun for self-protection.”
I didn’t bother suggesting that Stu might’ve bought the gun to do himself in. At that point, it was clear neither of us thought it was suicide.
“So the cops don’t yet know what kind of drink was in that glass,” I said.
“Not yet, but it’s looking like Stu didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Wait, what?” I sat up straight as Martin gave me a little smile that said, Think about it.
I’m happy to report it took me only a few seconds before the obvious answer smacked me in the head. “They lifted fingerprints from the glass,” I said, “and they didn’t belong to Stu.”
“Correct on both counts,” he said. “And before you ask, they don’t know whose prints they are. They’re not in the database.”
“What about DNA?” I asked.
“That takes a lot longer. I’m assuming that if they get DNA off that glass, it won’t be Stu’s.”
I nodded. “It’ll belong to whoever left their prints on it.”
“Bottom line is, someone else was out there with Stu.”
“Or someone else was out there before Stu,” I said, “and they just left the glass there. Of course, Shelley swears she would’ve known if anyone else had made use of the hot tub, though I don’t see how, since she didn’t even know Stu was there.”
“For what it’s worth, none of the paying guests noticed anyone out there, either. It was pretty chilly that night, so I’m not surprised everyone stayed inside.”
Someone apparently signaled to Martin from one of the tables, because he nodded in response, moved to the beer taps, and filled a pitcher. After delivering it, he returned to his place behind the bar, uncorked the tequila bottle again, and topped off my snifter. “Did you happen to notice that Stu left his clothes in a little pile near the hot tub, along with a small leather backpack?”
“No,” I said, “but it was dark, and the stiff in the tub was a real attention grabber.”
“Well, did you wonder what he was wearing in the hot tub?” the padre asked.
“Is this one of those trick questions Cheyenne is so fond of?” I took a sip of tequila and thought back on the moment I first laid eyes on Stu Ruskin. The churning water of the spa had concealed most of his body. “I just assumed he was wearing swim trunks, but I realize now that would mean he planned to end up in the tub. So tell me. What was he wearing?”
“Not a blessed thing,” he said.
“Which would seem to indicate it was a spontaneous decision,” I said, “taking a dip in that spa.”
“Which brings us to the question of why,” Martin said. “Was he just driving by and decided it would be great fun to sneak onto Collingwood property and make use of the facilities? Kind of a childish prank for a middle-aged guy to pull.”
“Who knows?” I said. “Maybe he’d been getting away with it his whole life.”
“Aren’t you going to ask what was in the leather backpack?”
“I think I can guess what it held when Stu arrived there,” I said. “His gun and silencer. He or someone else took it out at some point.”
The padre nodded. “It still contained a spare magazine. The interior was fitted with straps and pouches specifically designed for gun gear. I’m assuming he took it everywhere with him.”
“Only to have his own weapon turned on him in the end.” Automatically I glanced toward the pub’s door as it opened. “Oh my Gawd.”