by Nic Saint
“Nope. So far he’s even refused to get me my drink.”
I told her about my encounters with Kelley and Carney, and how I thought they were both probably innocent in the murder of their father.
“So that only leaves the widow and Jack,” said Fee, trying to catch the bar owner’s eye. He kept ignoring us, though, and no matter how much I waved and gestured, he continued to tune us out, acting as if we weren’t there.
“This is just too much,” I grumbled, and finally climbed on top of the counter.
“Alice!” Fee hissed, glancing around at the other patrons. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to get some service. Hey!” I shouted at Jack, who was rinsing glasses behind the counter. “What does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?”
The other patrons now all laughed and cheered, raising their glasses in a salute to me. I took a bow, feeling very much like Piper Perabo in Coyote Ugly, even though I wasn’t much of a singer.
“Come on, Jack!” a customer yelled. “Aren’t you going to give this lady a drink?! It’s on me!”
Jack, his face a thundercloud, finally threw down his dish towel and walked over. “What do you want?” he asked in a rumbling undertone.
“Hey, Jack,” I said. “It’s me. Alice. One of your best customers.”
He looked from me to Fee and back again. “The only reason you’re here is so you can pump me for information about my dad’s murder, so let’s get on with it. What do you want to know?”
I sobered. This was my shot.
“We would like to know if it’s true that you’re thinking about turning Jack’s Joint into a franchise,” said Fee, who’d drawn her barstool closer.
He leaned his hands on the bar and glanced through the window. For a moment I thought he hadn’t heard Fee. “She says she would like to know—”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, turning to face us. “I heard you the first time. Why do you want to know?”
“Because rumor has it that you and your brothers are all in need of money. Lots of money.”
“Which would give us a motive to kill the old man. I get it,” he said.
He looked tired, I now saw, his features wreathed in frowns. His long, dark hair was greasy and unkempt, his hawklike nose red and veiny, and his eyes rheumy. He looked like he’d aged since I’d seen him last, which was only a few hours ago.
I suddenly felt sorry for the guy, and remorseful. For Fee and I this was almost like a game: catch the bad guy. Solve the murder. For Jack this was about his dad, who was now gone. “Did you have a good relationship with Banning?” I asked, flashing back to the picture Carney had shown me of him and his dad in Vegas.
Jack idly wiped the counter, more out of habit than because it needed the attention. “Not really,” he admitted. “Dad always wanted me to follow in his footsteps. As the eldest he felt I needed to take over the farm after he was gone, same way he’d taken over from his dad. I was never going to be a duck farmer, though, and I made that very clear to him when I left home at seventeen. That kind of thing isn’t exactly conducive to creating a bond, and he blamed me for the demise of the farm ever since.”
“But he must have been proud that you made such a success of yourself with the bar,” said Fee.
“He didn’t see it that way,” Jack said curtly. “Now what can I get you?”
We both ordered a Coke Zero, and he plunked down the glasses on the bar before moving away.
Then, just when I was about to give up on this third son, he ambled over again. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. Since I needed the money, I probably killed my dad. But you’re wrong. I did need the money, but I was never going to ask him. I have my pride. I wasn’t going to beg. Besides, it wasn’t as if the old man was loaded.”
“But the story of the hidden money,” Fee began.
Jack made a swiping motion with his hand. “Just a load of crap. There never was any money buried anywhere. That was just a story Dad liked to spread. Make people think he was a bigger success than he was. Truth is that farm was like a millstone around his neck, threatening to take him down. The only value is in the land that farm is built on, and anything an astute developer is willing to pay.”
“Is it true that they’re going to turn the farm into a golf course?” I asked.
He eyed me curiously. “How do you know about that?”
I shrugged. “I have my sources.”
“Yeah, and one of them is sitting right there and has been staring at me for the better part of the past two hours.” His jaw worked. “Look, I can understand that you want to solve this murder, but can you please call off your attack dogs? It’s really annoying.”
We both looked over to where he was indicating, and only now did I see that in a dark corner of the bar a familiar figure was sitting, sipping from a cup of tea. I hadn’t recognized her at first, with that ridiculous black wig and mustard-colored mustache. But then I saw it was… Mabel Stokely.
“What is Mabel doing here?” I asked.
“Beats me. Probably same thing we’re doing here,” Fee said.
“That is one horrible disguise,” I said.
“It sure scares the crap out of me,” Jack confirmed. “Look, I am trying to expand Jack’s Joint. This place is popular and I would like to repeat the formula in other places, maybe New York, where I know a guy who’s interested in opening Jack’s Joint 2. Only I need cash, and luckily a private investor has agreed to back me up. Not that it’s any of your business, but I know you’ll just keep on prying until you’re satisfied.”
“I’m sorry, Jack,” I said ruefully. “But prying is what we do.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I get it. I was just never on the receiving end of it, that’s all. It’s not a lot of fun.”
“Being a suspect in a murder investigation rarely is,” said Fee gently.
“Look, is there anything else you’d like to know, cause I really need to get back to work.”
“Is it true that your dad was having an affair?” I asked.
He grimaced. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you? Yeah, probably. At least that’s what Kelley keeps telling me, though I have no idea who it is,” he was quick to anticipate my next question. “Or even if it’s true. I do know that Mom is seeing a guy, and that they were getting a divorce.”
“She’s seeing a developer?” I asked.
He stared at me, obviously not happy. “You’ll have to ask her.”
“Which you told us we couldn’t,” I reminded him.
“Well, since you already talked to Carney and Kelley and me, you might as well talk to Mom. I mean, it’s not as if you’re going to let me stop you.”
“You seem to know us pretty well,” I said.
He smiled for the first time, a tired smile. “Well, you have been a loyal customer for years, Alice, so I pretty much know what makes you tick.” He leaned on the bar. “Now answer a question of mine, will you?”
“Shoot,” I said, perhaps a little injudiciously.
“Is it true that you and that cop—that Detective Walker…”
“No, it’s not true,” I said immediately. “Rock and I are just… friends.”
He grinned. “Yeah, right. You’re a terrible liar, Alice Whitehouse.” He then sobered and picked up his dish towel again. “And a very conscientious sleuth. If I were a killer, I’d be quaking in my boots right now.”
“Aww. That’s so nice of you to say.”
“What about me?” asked Fee. “Do you think killers are quaking in their boots thinking about me, too?”
“Nah. Not really,” he said. “You’re too much of a sweetheart, Fee.”
“But I’m also tough as nails, right?” she asked, hopeful.
“No, you’re a pussycat.”
“With sharp nails,” she said, clawing the air and making hissing sounds like a cat.
“Nah. Basically just a sweetie pie. Whereas Alice may look like a sweetheart, but she’s got that steely thing going on underneath.”
“Oh,” said Fee, looking disappointed. “Well, I’ll have you know I’m tough as nails, too.”
“Of course you are,” Jack said with a grin.
“No, but I mean it.” She made a circular gesture at her face. “Beneath this sweet exterior lurks a tigress about to pounce.”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
“No, but really.”
I patted Fee’s back. “I believe you, honey. You’re one tough cookie.”
“Thanks,” she said, relieved, then frowned. “Speaking of cookies, I’m starting to get a little peckish.”
Just then, my phone beeped, and so did every other phone in the bar, Fee’s included. When I took it out, I saw I’d received another video message.
Chapter 13
“Oh, my God,” I muttered. What I saw was enough to scare the bejeezus out of me. This time, the footage had been filmed through a bedroom window, and it quickly became clear whose bedroom it was when Mabel Stokely came into view, along with her husband Mark. Mabel was dancing on the bed, dressed in a pink tutu, a diadem perched on her head, and making provocative moves while Mark sat at the foot of the bed, enjoying the scene with visible relish.
I could even hear the music that was accompanying the tawdry scene: Ravel’s Bolero. Then, just before the tutu fell to the bed, the video cut away to a titling sequence that warned: ‘The Neighborhood Watch Is Going Down!’
A hush had fallen over the bar, but then suddenly there was a loud wail of lament, and Mabel got to her feet so fast she almost upended the table, upsetting the cup of tea, and raced for the exit, her face betraying her extreme upset. All the way to the door, she was making soft whimpering sounds, as if on the verge of a major breakdown. The moment she’d streaked out the door, however, howls of laughter suddenly filled the room, as the other customers gave utterance to their merriment.
I looked at Fee and Fee looked at me, and we both got up at the same time, setting foot for the exit. The neighborhood watch was under fire, and it was time to start finding out what the heck was going on.
Outside, we quickly caught up with Mabel, who stood taking in big gulps of air, her mustache dangling limply from her upper lip.
“There, there,” Fee said, placing a comforting arm on the secretary’s shoulder.
“It’s so horrible!” Mabel cried, trying to catch her breath. “What will people think? I’m the mayor’s secretary! I can’t be seen dressed like that. And what if those foul miscreants have more video of me, doing…” She gulped, her eyes bulging slightly.
“Is there more footage of you?” I inquired gently.
“There might be,” she said. “I don’t quite remember.”
“You don’t remember dancing the Bolero because you do it all the time and you don’t remember this particular occasion, or you don’t remember dancing the Bolero because it was such a long time ago?” asked Fee.
Mabel turned on her. “I don’t dance the Bolero all the time! just… on special occasions. Like Mark’s birthday. Or our wedding anniversary. When you’ve been married as long as Mark and I have, you will understand that you need to spice things up from time to time. Keep things interesting.”
“Well, you certainly succeeded,” I said. “It definitely looked interesting.”
“I would like to see you keep your husband’s attention after thirty-odd years of marriage,” Mabel snapped. “When your body doesn’t look so…” She gestured wildly at me. “So horribly young and…” Her face reddened as she tried to find the right words. “Bendy!”
“I’m bendy?” I asked. It was a word I’d never associated with myself.
“Yes, you are. You are young and pretty and bendy. And I’m old and fat and stiff. It’s a miracle Mark has stuck with me for as long as he has and now…” She teared up, and added, howling, “Now he’ll be so humiliated he’ll file for divorce the minute he sees the video!”
“Oh, no, he won’t,” Fee said consolingly. “Mark loves you, Mabel. He’s not going to let a little thing like this scare him away. He’s stood by you all these years and I’m sure he’s going to stand by you as you face this crisis.”
“It is a crisis!” Mabel cried. “A terrible, humiliating crisis. How can I show my face anywhere after this? How can I go to work? What is Mayor MacDonald going to say?!”
“Mayor MacDonald isn’t going to say anything,” Fee said soothingly. “A man who’s ordered the kidnapping of my future father-in-law’s precious little dog is not going to start pointing fingers at other people. And if he is, you can remind him of that little incident with my and Rick’s compliments.”
“Oh, that’s right,” said Mabel, brightening slightly. “I’d totally forgotten about that.”
“Well, I haven’t,” said Fee, who loved both dogs and her future father-in-law.
“I think we have to put a stop to this,” I said, gesturing with my phone.
“You think?!” Mabel cried. “We have to catch this man and hang him from the highest tree by his testicles!”
“Um, isn’t that a little extreme, Mabel?” I asked.
“No, it’s not!” she insisted, stomping her foot. “We should get the FBI involved.” She was still wearing the black wig, though it was now slightly askance, giving her a goofy and slightly unbalanced look. Her original hair color, which was an engaging pink, was peeking through, so I removed the wig. She snatched it from my fingers and stuffed it into her purse, along with her fake mustache.
“The FBI?” asked Fee. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, the FBI is not going to want to string this man up by his private parts,” I pointed out.
“True,” she admitted, wavering. A resolute look came over her plump face. “Then we’ll just have to catch him ourselves. And string him up from the highest tree.”
“Let’s all calm down and think for a moment,” Fee suggested, trying to temper Mabel’s medieval tendencies. “It’s obvious that whoever is behind this wants to harm the neighborhood watch. So it stands to reason that it’s someone who feels wronged.”
“Anyone we ever helped put behind bars would be in that category,” I said.
“Where they all still remain,” Mabel said. “And I can’t see how they would be filming me in my underwear—” When I emitted a soft chuckle she gave me a look that could kill. “—or Marjorie and Virgil asleep in their beds.”
Fee suddenly emitted a gasp, her hand flying to her mouth.
“What is it, Fee?” I asked, concerned.
“Don’t you see? Whoever is doing this is going to come after us next!”
“You’re right,” said Mabel. “They already nabbed Marjorie and me—now it’s Bettina and the two of you.” She pursed her lips. “You have to hire a bodyguard. Better yet, a team of bodyguards to watch you around the clock. Just like George and Amal. Not to mention Beyoncé and Jay-Z. A bodyguard will catch this little freak, snap his neck and string him up—”
“From the highest tree,” I said wearily. “I’m sorry, Mabel, but I don’t have the funds to hire a bodyguard.”
“Neither do I,” Fee confessed.
“Maybe we can ask Rick to stand guard?” I asked.
“Ricky is no bodyguard,” Mabel said. “No offense, hon.”
“None taken,” said Fee. “And you’re right. Ricky is no bodyguard. Though he keeps telling me he picked up some serious fighting skills when he spent months in the Colombian jungle working on an in-depth portrait of notorious drug lord Paco Rabanne.”
I frowned at her. “Are you sure he said Paco Rabanne? He’s a famous Spanish fashion designer. I don’t think he ever set foot in the Colombian jungle, unless it was to shoot a commercial for one of his fragrances.”
“It could have been Pablo Rabanne,” said Fee with a wave of the hand. “The point is, he might be able to take on one attacker, but if they come in numbers, he’s no match for them.”
“What about Rock?” asked Mabel. “He’s packing heat, isn’t he? And he’ll be more than happy to save y
ou from bodily harm.”
They both looked at me, but I was dubious. “We don’t have that kind of relationship,” I said.
“So what kind of relationship do you have?” asked Mabel, exasperated.
“We kiss. From time to time.”
“You kiss,” said Mabel dubiously.
“Well, mainly he kisses me,” I said, wanting to paint a complete picture.
“Just tell him that if he wants to keep kissing you, he needs to step up and keep this, this…” Mabel gestured furiously with her phone. “… monster from murdering you in your sleep.”
“He’s not a murderer I don’t think,” I said thoughtfully. “He mainly seems to want to humiliate us.”
“Take us down a notch,” Fee agreed. “Make us look ridiculous in the eyes of the community.”
“Clever,” I said.
“What did you just call me?” Mabel burst out.
“Not you. Him—or whoever is behind this. He knows that the neighborhood watch relies on our standing within the community we’ve sworn to protect, and he’s trying to undermine our reputation. Make us the laughingstock of this town.”
“Well, he’s certainly succeeding,” Mabel grumbled as a couple of kids walked by and openly laughed at her, mimicking the dancing moves she’d demonstrated so ably in that video.
Just then, I saw a familiar figure crossing the street. “There she is!”
Mabel and Fee both turned in the direction I was pointing. Mabel frowned. “Hey, that woman looks just like—”
“Priscilla,” Fee completed the sentence.
“See? I told you!” I said triumphantly. “Hey! Priscilla!” I called out, going off on a trot.
The woman snapped her head around, and the moment she saw me moving in, turned on her heel and quickly walked in the opposite direction. She turned a corner, and by the time I reached it, panting slightly, she was gone. “Oh, my God!” I cried to the others, who’d followed me, and now stood breathing heavily. “She’s a ghost!”
“Impossible,” said Fee. “If she were a ghost, she would simply evaporate, not get into her car and drive off.”