Gin Mill Grill

by Marja McGraw

  “Surprisingly, it was very easy. You have an appointment in his office at four o’clock this afternoon.”

  “Did you speak to him personally?” Pete asked.

  “No. I spoke to his grandson. He struck me as a rather snooty gentleman and he didn’t want to set up a meeting, but when I told him what it was about, he relented.” He paused. “I can’t explain it, but I got the feeling that he already knew about your investigation.”

  “The newspaper got hold of the story,” Pete explained. “Finding two bodies from old crimes seemed to grab their attention. The grandson must have seen the story. We’d just found the woman’s body when the story was published.”

  I glanced at my watch. It was already noon. “Let’s get some lunch and head to the winery offices.”

  “You might want to get your lunch to go,” Stanley said. “He’s not in their local offices, but about three hours up the coast at one of their wineries.”

  “Oh?”

  “According to the grandson, Marcus Windsor, Jeffrey doesn’t spend any time in their main offices anymore. He has officially retired and his daughter, grandson and granddaughter have taken over the business. The younger Mr. Windsor will meet you there and be with his grandfather while you interview him.”

  “This should be interesting,” I said. “From what I’ve read about the grandfather, he’s a take-no-prisoners kinda guy. No guff, no fluff.”

  Stanley raised his eyebrows. “A lot of people’s personality traits become more pronounced as they age. I wish I could be a fly on the wall during this interview.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Pete and I took Stanley’s suggestion and picked up food-to-go for our trip up the coast. We didn’t dawdle or sightsee on our way north, but hurried every chance we had. Thanks to traffic and road construction, the trip took a little longer than we’d anticipated, and we were barely on time.

  The winery was also where Windsor’s mansion was located. A gentleman whom I assumed was his grandson sat on the front porch, apparently waiting for us. The home was either a vintage building or it has been built to look like it was from a long ago era.

  I nudged Pete. “I’m no expert, but I think that’s what they call an Arts & Crafts home. It’s what I’d call graceful looking. I’ll bet there are at least eight or nine bedrooms. Wouldn’t you love to see the inside?”

  Pete’s only reply was a grunt.

  “Well, don’t you think it’s beautiful?”

  He repeated his grunt. “You’ll see the inside when we meet with Windsor.”

  I smiled. “Good point.”

  The man who’d been sitting on the porch walked over to the car and met us. We climbed out and he held out his hand, first to me and then to Pete.

  “I’m Marcus Windsor. You must be the Goldbergs.”

  “I’m Sandi, and this is my husband, Pete. It’s nice to meet you, and thank you for accommodating us.”

  I pointed toward the mansion.

  “Your grandfather has a lovely home. Is it original? I mean, was it built around the turn of the century?”

  “Thank you, and yes, it was. Grandfather brought it up to speed. It had been left untouched for many years.”

  “He did a wonderful job,” I said.

  Marcus turned and walked toward the house, apparently expecting us to follow.

  “I know you’re anxious to meet my grandfather, however, I thought we should talk a little first.”

  He turned and glanced at me.

  “He’s not the easiest man to get along with and, unfortunately, he enjoys flirting. Please don’t think less of him. He’s accustomed to behavior fitting his youth and he’s not politically correct as we are today.”

  I wasn’t known for being politically correct, but I didn’t bring that up.

  Marcus continued. “I understand you’re interested in the time period during Prohibition, is that correct?”

  “It is,” Pete said. “We’re private investigators, as I’m sure Stanley told you on the phone, and we’re looking into crimes from that era.”

  Marcus stopped walking and turned to Pete, looking somewhat suspicious. “What crimes would that be, and just how does my grandfather fit into this?”

  “There were three murders committed in the early nineteen-thirties, two of which just came to light. Your grandfather knew the victims and he might be able to shed some light on what happened,” I said.

  Still appearing suspicious, Marcus asked, “Is my grandfather a suspect?”

  “Not to the best of our knowledge,” I replied.

  “He may have information we can’t find anywhere else,” Pete added. “He was there, involved with the people at the H&H Diner.”

  “The H&H Diner?” The grandson looked surprised. “Never heard of it.”

  “There was a speakeasy in the back room.” I hoped that would spark some interest on his part since his grandfather had been a bootlegger.

  “Oh, that diner,” Marcus said, laughing. “Grandfather had more fun in those days than he’s ever had since he changed to a legitimate business. He’ll be glad to talk to you. He enjoys reminiscing about those days. My father could have probably answered all of your questions because grandfather regaled him with all sorts of tales, but he passed away a few years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He shrugged and didn’t reply as he turned and headed toward the house.

  “Follow me. Grandfather will have had his afternoon nap by now. He’ll be delighted by your visit.”

  Pete felt it best to be honest. “Even though we’re here about old friends of his being murdered?”

  “Trust me when I say that nothing bothers the old man. Sometimes I think he’s made of steel.” There was a certain sadness to Marcus’ tone.

  We climbed up the steps and entered the house. It was just what I expected, and the décor was old but timeless. There were antiques everywhere.

  Marcus caught me looking around. “My grandmother decorated the house. If it had been up to my grandfather, this would look like a backroom speakeasy, but that shouldn’t surprise you. If you’ve spoken to other people, I’m sure you’ve heard stories.”

  “Frankly, we’ve only talked to a few people and, no, we haven’t heard anything,” Pete said. “I guess we don’t have any preconceived notions about Mr. Windsor.”

  Marcus raised an eyebrow. “No, I guess there aren’t too many of his generation left, so I’m glad to hear that. Just be prepared. He’s a cantankerous old man and he’s never been one to take any guff. Oh, and his hearing isn’t what it used to be.”

  He waved us on and we entered a room that was different from what we’d already seen. It looked like a—

  Pete interrupted my thoughts. “Looks like a speakeasy,” he whispered.

  An old man sat in a wheelchair in front of a fireplace with a cover over his legs, watching us intently.

  I studied the room while the man studied me.

  “Come here, doll face, and have a comfy seat,” he said, patting his legs.

  “I think I’ll just sit over here,” I said, seating myself on an old barstool at an old and elaborate bar.

  “Just as well,” Pete whispered. “You’d break his legs if you sat on his lap.”

  The old man laughed, kind of gurgled, and coughed.

  Marcus smiled at his grandfather. “Now, let the lady get to know you before you start showing off. I’ll leave you to talk to these nice people.” He pointed at me and then Pete. “This is Sandi, and her husband Pete.”

  When Marcus left the room, I studied the old man. He was bald and as wrinkled as a prune. His eyebrows reminded me of Eloise in that they were bushy, with heavily lidded eyes under them. Well, her eyes weren’t heavily lidded. His eyes also looked watery, just as Edgar’s had, and they were faded. At the same time, he didn’t look like he missed a thing going on around him.

  His nose? Bulbous and veiny. He looked like a man who’d spent plenty of time on the business side of the bar. That
is, the drinking side.

  He was small, most likely a shrunken version of what he’s once been.

  While I studied him, he watched me. “I’m ninety-nine years old, young lady. Is that too old for the likes of you?”

  “’Fraid so, Jeffrey. May I call you Jeffrey?”

  “You can call me whatever you like, but I prefer Rusty.” He patted his bald head. “Bet that makes you think I once had red hair. Nah, I used to have black hair. Don’t know where Rusty came from, but it stuck.

  “And just so’s you know, I’m sharp as a tack. Never forget a thing. Now what is it you want to talk about?”

  Right down to business. “The H&H Diner and the Glosser brothers.”

  He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Such an ugly business; one brother killing another. I never woulda thought Harley had it in him to do such a thing.”

  “That’s not what happened,” Pete said.

  “Careful,” I whispered. “Remember his age. No shocks.”

  Rusty heard me, sort of. “No stocks? I thought we were talking about the Glosser brothers.”

  “That’s not what I said, but – ”

  “Let’s get down to business. What did happen? And don’t pull any punches. I can take it, whatever it is.”

  Pete took a deep breath. “Harley was murdered, too.”

  Rusty gurgled and coughed again. Maybe he’d been a longtime smoker along with drinking.

  “Well, I’ll be.” He glanced down at his hands. “I guess I was right. Harley didn’t have it in him to do such a dastardly deed.”

  “What about – “ I started to ask about Loretta, but Pete interrupted me.

  “One thing at a time. Shocks, remember?”

  Rusty’s head jerked up, as much as it could at his age. “So what do you want from me?”

  Pete licked his lips before he spoke. “Anything you can tell us would help. There was a woman named Loretta Simms and I think she figured into it somehow.”

  The old man continued to stare at his hands. “Loretta. My, oh my, I’ve thought about her many times over the years. What a looker she was! She could sing, too. She was quite the little… What’d they call it?” His eyes narrowed while he thought. “Oh, yeah, she was a torch singer. Sultry voice, like a hot summer night. Made ya feel warm all over. Nobody ever cared about her being a gimp, either. That limp never slowed her down for a second.”

  Yeah, his grandson had been right. There was nothing politically correct about this guy.

  He stopped talking and turned his gaze to me.

  “You sing?”

  “No. One note from me and I could clear out a room.”

  He laughed before coughing.

  “So she was popular with the men?” Pete asked.

  “I guess that would be a nice way to put it,” Rusty replied, frowning. “Uh huh, she was popular, all right. She was also picky. Not everyone was up to her standards.”

  “Did you like her?” I asked.

  His frown grew.

  “No. Can’t say I did.”

  “Why not?” Pete asked. “From what we’ve heard she was, uh, in demand.”

  Rusty sat quietly for a moment. “I lied,” he said, quietly. His voice picked up. “She wasn’t picky. She was just the opposite, fast and loose. More than one man had his way with her. I’ll bet she married one of those poor suckers. After Horace was killed, she just up and left town, never to be heard from again.”

  Pete pursed his lips before speaking. “She was killed, too.”

  “Speak up son. My hearing ain’t what it used to be.”

  “She was murdered, too,” Pete said loudly.

  Rusty sucked in his breath, causing another coughing spasm.

  “How do you know that?” he asked.

  “We found her body.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “You found her body?” He took a moment and let that sink in. “And what about Harley? How do you know he was killed?” He was sharper than I realized.

  “We found his body, too,” I said.

  He scratched his head. “Huh. We all thought the two of them had run off together. Horace and Harley used to fight about that woman. They both wanted her, and neither one could see what a tramp she was. I knew, from personal experience.”

  “Oh.” That surprised me, but it shouldn’t have after his fast and loose comment. I remembered what Edgar had said about Loretta and Rusty, but I couldn’t help wondering if he was bragging or if they really did get together.

  Sometimes political correctness hampered an investigation because people were too careful about sharing information. We certainly didn’t have to worry about that with Rusty. He told it like it was, or at least his version of how it was.

  I heard a soft sound and turned to find Marcus standing in the doorway. He shifted from one foot to the other.

  “Grandfather, are you sure you want to hear this?”

  Rusty flicked his hand at him. “We’re talking about people I knew in the day. I want to know what happened.”

  An odd expression crossed Marcus’ face, or had I imagined it? It was quick. There and gone in a split second. These people were filthy rich. Maybe it was beneath him to hear stories about death and supposed tramps.

  I turned back to Rusty. If he could be blunt, then so could I.

  “Other than the fact that the brothers argued about the tramp, what else can you tell us about them?”

  I heard a slight gasp come from Marcus, and I could see Pete trying to hide a grin.

  Rusty laughed before his eyes narrowed. “You’ve got gumption, girlie, I’ll give you that. You didn’t try to put me in my place, but you didn’t kowtow to me.”

  “I don’t know enough yet to correct you. Were there other people involved in this situation? Were there other men who might have caused problems?”

  “Of course. Why else would I call Loretta a tramp? She had plenty of gentlemen friends.”

  “Were you one of them?” Pete asked.

  “I was just a kid.” The old man sounded irritated, like it was impudent of Pete to ask such a question.

  Pete shrugged. “Just askin’. You seem to know a lot for an old geezer.”

  “I got around, buster, and I kept my eyes open. I knew the score.”

  Rusty glanced at me.

  I knew Pete was up to something, but I couldn’t figure it out. This wasn’t the way he normally dealt with people.

  “Where’d you find this buzzard?” The old man was taking my guff, but not Pete’s.

  “He’s my husband. That’s all you need to know. Let’s get back on track. What else can you tell us?”

  The old man cleared his throat and took his time answering me. “My mind is like a steel trap. I never forget anything. Marcus, why don’t you take this yahoo and show him around the winery while the cookie and I talk?”

  Marcus looked uncomfortable. “But – “

  For a ninety-nine-year-old man, Rusty’s voice was strong.

  “Now!” he ordered.

  Pete and Marcus glanced at each other. My husband stood and headed for the doorway.

  Marcus showed him out.

  “And don’t let the door hit you in the butt when you leave,” Rusty said loudly, making himself cough again.

  Pete reached back for the handle and slammed the door.

  “Okay, hotshot,” I said, “what was that all about? My husband is one of the good guys.” I figured out right away that the only way to earn Rusty’s respect was to give as good as I got, or as good as he could give.

  “I don’t like good guys,” he replied, sounding ornery. “Ah, I’m just joking. I didn’t want Marcus to hear everything I’m going to tell you. His opinion of me is already low enough. Mr. Snooty doesn’t like people to know about my past.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Here’s the skinny. Loretta and me were friends. She didn’t care how young I was. I gave her her own private supply of booze. How to win friends, huh? Anyway, at the time she told me
someone was after her, threatening her, but she didn’t know who it was. She asked me to keep my peepers open and report back to her. So I did.”

  “Did you figure out who was after her?” I asked.

  “Nah, but there were some possibilities. Edgar Barrow was the bartender and he had the hots for her. Want to know how I remember his name? I just think of a wheelbarrow.” He laughed. “That’s how I’ve always remembered things. I relate them to other things.”

  “Good idea. Who else was a possibility?”

  He rubbed his chin and studied me. “The Glosser brothers, but I don’t think they were smart enough to scare her with threats. There was a guy named Phil, a neighbor of the brothers. He wanted Loretta in the worst way, but he had a wife who kept a close eye on him. One of them cops… What was his name? Oh, yeah. Here’s where my method works. He was human. His name was Sylvester Humin.” He spelled the surname for me. “Sylvester was always threatening to run her in if she didn’t cooperate with him, and you get my drift on that one.”

  I’d pulled out my notepad and wrote down all the names.

  “Is that it?”

  “No. There were jealous women who didn’t like her, like Phil’s wife, but I don’t recall her name. There was a barmaid named Estelle. I can’t forget her. Little lady, now that I think on it, there could be a long list of names, but most of those people would be dead and gone by now.”

  “Well, Rusty, you’ve given me a good place to start. Thank you.”

  “Will you come back to see me again? Now that we’re talkin’ about those days, I’m sure more memories will come back.”

  “I’ll visit you again, and I’ll leave my phone number with your grandson in case anything really important pops into your mind.”

  “You’re a hoot, you know that? Everything that comes to this old man’s mind is important in one way or another, and don’t you forget that.”

  “Please don’t take this wrong, but I’m amazed at how sharp you are at your age.”