“I’m the happiest man in the world.” Michael Sutcliffe spoke into the microphone then smiled at the crowd of people gathered in the ballroom. Standing behind him, Savannah had reaffixed her mask, a plastered smile of red lipstick and painted eyes that stared emptily into the crowd. Michael lifted his champagne coupe in a toast, and someone called out, “To Michael and Savannah,” which was repeated by the audience.
The clinks of glasses were followed by sips of cocktails, and the crowd mingled in small groups. Tina wove her way through the various clusters, offering a selection of hors d’oeuvres. How she walked in those three-inch stilettos while effortlessly balancing silver platters on her shoulders was an act of athletic prowess, Harley thought.
Harley rested her tired back against the bar, happy things would be over soon, at least for herself, she hoped. It was then that Jed Turner emerged from the crowd, having left Cheri behind to mingle with a group of women from the Notchey Creek Gardening Club. The whippet-thin Cheri made quite a statement in her black leather slip dress and knee-high stiletto boots. As the gardening club ladies presumably spoke of proper weeding and pruning practices, Cheri smiled in rote agreeability, all the while looking over their shoulders for someone more socially desirable to speak to.
Harley was happy to see Jed and Cheri were back together for the moment. Perhaps Jed would be in a better mood. However, this was not the case. He approached the bar and, pushing aside the display of small pumpkins and gourds, rested his elbows on the counter, heaving a bored sigh. He wore a gray silk suit and blue tie, a Super Bowl ring glittering from his finger. The little the barber had left of his brown hair made him appear like a drill sergeant.
“I need to talk to you,” he said with his usual charm.
“Okay.” Harley continued filling rows of champagne coupes.
“Expect me at the shop first thing tomorrow.”
Not saying another word, Jed made his way back to the grateful Cheri, who was by that time up to her stiletto boots in proper pruning and irrigation practices.
“The cocktails were phenomenal,” a male voice said, drawing Harley from her reverie. Eric Winston stood in front of the bar, smiling at her. Yesterday’s fatigue had lifted from his face, as had the day-old stubble, and he looked quite handsome in his black suit and tie.
He was tall and slim with a V-shaped torso, and had chiseled, angular features, accented by striking light-blue eyes. She could imagine him at an exclusive ski lodge in the Swiss Alps, sipping cognac by the fire in between runs on the slopes. Or perhaps on a thirty-foot yacht, his white linen clothes rippling in the breeze as he worked the sails. Afterward, he would change into an expensive suit like the one he wore then and dine on lobster and brut champagne at a five-star restaurant.
And that was the difference between them.
Harley examined her silly uniform, the burden of her red glasses weighing unusually heavy on her nose at that moment. Eric Winston was The Ritz. She was Bud’s Pool Hall.
“So what do you call this?” he asked, holding up his champagne coupe with a smile.
“The Seelbach.”
“Well, it sure is great. I mean, who knew champagne and whiskey could make such a good pairing?”
“Adam Seger. He’s the one who invented it. In the 1990s.”
“1990s?” Eric looked surprised. “I would’ve thought this was a lot older.”
“That’s what Seger wanted everyone to believe. He said he found the recipe on an old menu at the Seelbach Hotel in Louisville. Claimed the cocktail had once been the hotel’s signature drink and it predated Prohibition. And sometimes in the cocktail world, vintage is better, at least if you want to make a name for yourself.”
“Oh, the things people do,” Eric said, shaking his head. “And all for their five minutes of fame. Nonetheless, I’m glad he did it.”
He took another sip of his cocktail and rested the coupe on the bar. “And how are you doing, Harley?” His eyes searched hers with concern. “I was worried about you earlier—after what happened to Patrick. I kept thinking about you afterward. You know, if you ever need somebody to talk to, somebody to listen, I’m here.”
There was something about Eric Winston’s easy manner, his down-to-earth gentility that put her at ease. He was so caring and genuine and easy to talk to despite his intimidating good looks. His handsomeness seemed to matter nothing to him, as if he weren’t even aware of what other people saw when they looked at him.
“Thanks, Eric,” she said. “You’re the first person in all of this who’s taken the time to ask me how I’m doing, the first person to care. I appreciate it, and I can honestly say that I’m doing okay.”
“And you’ll let me know if you need something, right?”
“Of course.”
“Well, now, that I know you’re okay …” His voice adopted a more serious tone. “There’s something I need to tell you about Patrick.” He drew closer to the bar and created an invisible circle around them with his body.
“About the autopsy?” Harley asked, lowering her voice to match his.
“I found bruising on his neck and chest, consistent with having been restrained. Somebody held him down in the water—caused him to drown.”
“So he was murdered then?”
“Looks like it. And as of tonight, Jed’s changed the case from accidental drowning to homicide.”
Eric glanced around the bar area to ensure no one was within hearing distance of their conversation. “And there were drugs in his bloodstream. Not sure exactly what yet. I’ve put a rush on the toxicology reports, but they appear to be hallucinogenic in effect. The amount was significant.” He raised his brows. “If Patrick was acting strangely, as you say, and if he did go to the creek that night hoping to meet somebody, the drugs might explain it. And,” he said, “there’s one other thing.”
Harley waited with rapt attention.
“Patrick was dying.”
Harley braced herself to the bar, gripping the sides with her hands.
“Had cancer,” Eric said. “I spoke with his doctor earlier. He said Patrick had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer recently. A terrible disease—very aggressive. They call it the silent killer because there’s hardly any symptoms before it’s too late.”
“How long did he have?”
“Less than six months.”
Harley shifted her weight against the bar, trying to digest the news. “Everything makes so much more sense now.”
“What do you mean?”
“The reason Patrick had been acting so strangely. Not selling the land to Arthur Johnson for the shopping center and deciding to build the history museum there instead. He wanted the museum to be his legacy.” She did not mention that Patrick’s argument with Beau Arson had seemed confessional in nature, nor did she mention his connection to the disoriented homeless man in Briarwood Park.
Eric’s father, Dr. Peter Winston, appeared over his son’s shoulder, interrupting their conversation.
“Eric,” he said, an exasperated look on his face, “could you please go rescue your mother from Mrs. Petree? I have an early morning in the OR, and I need to get home.”
Dr. Peter Winston, a prominent surgeon in town, resembled an older version of his son, but was less handsome and far less pleasant. The perpetual scowl he wore gave him a pinched and soured look, as if he were always suffering from some physical or mental ailment.
“Ah, Dad,” Eric said, turning to look at his father. “You remember Harley Henrickson, don’t you?”
He offered a cursory glance in Harley’s direction, and finding her wanting, returned to his son. “Eric, please. Your mother.”
“Yes, Dad, I’ll get her.”
“I’ll be in the car.” Then Peter Winston made his way through the ballroom to the front of the house.
Eric turned to Harley. “Well, I guess that’s all for me too tonight. If you think of anything else about the case, please stop by my office at the hospital, okay?”
“Will do.”
“It was nice seeing you again, Harley.”
Then he ventured off to do his father’s bidding, rescuing his mother from a still-chattering Mrs. Petree.
Harley decided she would have to be careful around Eric Winston. Already she could sense a growing attraction to him, one she could not control. His gentle manner, his kindness, his intelligence were all very attractive to her. He was so well-adjusted, it seemed, and so stable. He could be someone she could lean on in difficult situations. But people like Eric Winston didn’t fall in love with people like Harley Henrickson.
She began boxing up the remaining bottles, resigned to guard her heart.
There were far more critical things requiring her attention, the first being finding Patrick’s killer. It was time she was serious about the investigation. Her first stop the next day would be the Notchey Creek Public Library.