by J. R. Ripley
I pulled into the lot. Lines of semis were idling at the gas pumps. As for the food, the servings were large and the prices were small. Truckers could park their long-haulers for as long as they liked, and there were free showers. And they only charged a buck for the use of a clean towel.
It didn’t hurt that Truckee’s also had a full liquor license.
I’d come once or twice when in high school and never since. But everybody in town knew Greg Tuffnall. The Tuffnalls had owned the highway rest stop for as long as I could remember. Greg’s granddad had built the place by hand, and a Tuffnall had been running it ever since.
The bar had been added to the side of the diner in the sixties, and though the diner and bar shared a kitchen, the county had insisted at the time that it have a separate entrance.
“We’re eating in the bar?”
“Didn’t I mention? I’m treating you to drinks, too.”
Kim hurried after me. “Aren’t they ever going to resurface this parking lot?”
I stopped near a rust-pitted lamp pole and studied the complex. “Nothing much has changed in fifty years, has it?”
“Probably not even the grease in the fryers,” Kim quipped. “Can we go inside?” She fanned her face. “It stinks of diesel out here.”
“Don’t worry,” I said as I covered the last few steps to the bar’s entrance, “I’ll bet it smells just as bad inside.”
16
The small bar was dark and crowded. I was right about the smell. Although smoking had long been banned, you would never have known it based on the smell of tobacco emanating from every inch of the place. The distinct odor of diesel also hung in the air like it was ninety percent of the atmosphere. Truckee’s Bar was a relic of the sixties, in looks, furnishings, and aroma.
An American flag hung on the far wall next to a photograph of Richard Nixon. I led us to a couple of empty stools at the bar.
“Can’t we at least sit at a booth or a table?” Kim complained as she sat down beside me.
“It’s easier to talk here.”
“We can talk just as easily in a comfortable booth as we can on these stupid stools.” She swayed and bobbled uneasily on the loose stool.
“It’s not you I want to talk to.” I waved to the barmaid.
“What? You didn’t invite me to Truckee’s Bar to talk about my day and enjoy my scintillating conversation?”
“Is Greg Tuffnall here this evening?”
“Sure.” The barmaid, a stout woman in her forties, planted her hands on the bar. “He’s over in the diner. You looking for him or looking to avoid him?”
“I was hoping to speak with him. We’re old friends.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Kim’s jaw drop.
“I’ll tell him you’re here.” The barmaid wrung out her rag—which was cleaner than I would have expected—and ran it over the space in front of Kim and me. “Just who do I say you are?”
“Amy. Amy Simms. This is Kim Christy. The three of us went to high school together.”
She seemed to take the fact at face value. “Can I get you two ladies anything to drink in the meantime?”
“What do you recommend?”
“We’ve got an IPA on tap that’s good, cold, and on sale for two bucks a glass until seven.”
“We’ll take two of those,” Kim agreed quickly. “And I’ll have the cheeseburger basket with extra mayo.”
I’d forgotten that I had promised Kim dinner. “Give me the same,” I said, “but you can give her my mayo.”
The barmaid scribbled our orders on a pad and poured and handed us our beer. “I’ll let Tuff know you’re here.”
I tried the beer. “Not bad.”
Kim drank hers half down. “Do you remember how everybody used to call Greg Tuffnall Tuff? I’d forgotten until she said it.”
“Yeah. The guys in school used to say he was tough as nails.” Greg Tuffnall had a reputation for getting into fights, and I didn’t think he’d ever lost one.
Our food arrived with Greg Tuffnall. Each of his hands held a cheeseburger basket. “Well, well.” He grinned as he placed the paper-lined baskets before us. “When Martha told me there was an Amy Simms and a Kim Christy here to see me, I almost couldn’t believe it.”
“Hello, Greg. It’s been a long time. It’s good to see you again.”
He tipped back his head and looked me over in a way that made me uneasy. “It’s been a long time all right.”
Tuffnall leaned toward Kim, his stomach pressing into the counter. “It’s been a long time since I’ve laid eyes on you, too, Kimmy.” He batted his lashes and leered. He smelled of cheap cologne and day-old grease.
“Hello, Greg.” Kim pulled the top off her burger, laid three French fries across the burger patty, squirted on some ketchup from a bottle Martha had left for us, then replaced the bun top. “Nice place you’ve got here. I’ll have to tell my boyfriend about it.” Kim had a way of putting men in their place, and she clearly wanted Greg Tuffnall securely in his.
“You haven’t changed much, Greg.” There was just more of him. Not that I was going to call that to his attention. Greg had always been a beefy guy, but some of that beef had now gone to a roll of fat around his waist, bulging over his gold belt buckle. Greg had short black hair. He always had. He called it a military cut, and the description fit. His eyes were dark blue and matched the dark khakis he was wearing.
I pulled my basket closer and took a whiff. It didn’t smell bad at all.
Greg rolled up the sleeves of his gray shirt, then poured himself a beer from the tap. He tipped the glass to his lips in a manner meant to show off his biceps. “Tell me what’s going on, ladies?”
“Going on?” I took a bite of my burger, feeling the warm juices trickle over my tongue. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I haven’t seen either of you in fifteen years or more, and now you show up here?” He set his beer on the counter. “I’m guessing you’re not here for the food or the beer.”
“Why do you think we’re here?” Kim asked.
“Well,” he turned her way, “I wish it was because you had a sudden craving for me.”
Kim pulled a face.
Tuffnall continued. “But I’m guessing it’s because you want information.”
“And what kind of information might that be?” pressed Kim.
I wiped a paper napkin across my lips. “Let’s stop pretending,” I said to Kim. Turning to Greg, I said, “You know why I’m here. I heard that Mason Livingston was in here the other night.”
Greg grinned. “And you want to know what he was talking about?”
I pursed my lips. “Yes,” I admitted. “I do.”
Greg folded his arms across his chest. “It’s going to cost you.”
“What exactly did you have in mind?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
“A date.”
“What?” Kim spat beer and dropped her mug.
Greg cursed. He snatched a towel from under the counter and wiped up the spill. “One date. That’s all I want.” He handed Kim a fresh mug of beer.
Kim looked at me. “With which one of us?”
I glared at her. “It doesn’t matter which one!” I kicked Kim in the shin. “We both have boyfriends. We are not going out with you.”
“Okay . . .” Greg grabbed a fry from Kim’s basket and ran it over his lower lip before biting into it and swallowing. “How about just a kiss then?” He turned on me and puckered up. “Let’s start with you, Amy.”
I jerked back and fell off my stool.
Greg threw back his head and laughed. The barmaid, Martha, was laughing, too.
I clung to the barstool with one hand, while Kim assisted me up with the other. “You are a jerk,” I said, blushing and straightening my clothes. I resettled myself at the bar.
“Man, you always were a real stick in the mud,” Greg remarked, “you know that?”
I frowned. “That’s not true at all.”
He roll
ed his eyes. “You were never any fun in high school, and you’re no fun now.”
“Listen, Greg,” I began. “We came in here because a friend of mine was killed the other day. I’d like to know why, and I’d like to know who did it. Are you going to tell me what you know or not?
“Because if you’re not, I’m going to stop forcing myself to swallow this horrible piece of shoe leather you pass off as a cheeseburger and leave!”
Greg laughed again. “You are a hoot, Amy.” He banged his fist against the bar. “A hoot! Get it?” He pointed his finger at me. “You own a bird store? Hoot?” He shook his head in disgust and turned to Kim. “You need a new sidekick, Kimmy. This one is dragging you down.”
“That’s it.” I pulled out my wallet and threw down a credit card. “Tell me what I owe you so we can get out of here!”
“Tuff!” hollered Martha from the other end of the bar where she was in conversation with a pair of truckers who looked fresh off the road. “You stop giving those two ladies a hard time and answer their questions!”
Greg looked at Martha sheepishly. “Yes, dear.”
Kim bobbed her head. “Dear?”
“He’s my idiot husband!” Martha barked.
I looked at Greg Tuffnall from under a new light. “You’re married.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He was beaming. “Going on seven years.” He held up three fingers. “Got three kids. Two of ’em are stepkids,” he said, leaning closer, “but I love ’em all the same.”
I felt my heart rate dropping down to something in the normal range.
Kim chuckled and sank her teeth into her burger. “Boy, you really had Amy going there, Greg,” she said as she chewed.
“You knew?” I gaped at her. “You were in on this?”
“No, I didn’t know.”
I studied her face for signs of confabulation and came up empty. That didn’t mean she wasn’t fibbing; it only meant I was terrible at determining such things. “Fine. Can we get back to the point of this little visit, Greg?” I demanded.
“Okay, so you want to know about this Mason guy.”
“Yes. Lance Jennings told me that you told him that the professor was in here the other night.”
“That guy was a professor?” Greg seemed genuinely surprised.
“Yes, now spill,” I insisted.
“Like I told Lance, Mason came in here with some blonde.”
“Describe her.”
Greg rubbed his chin. “Tall, for a girl. Platinum blonde. A real looker.” He shot a nervous look at Martha, but she hadn’t heard or had chosen not to.
“That sounds like Violet Wilcox,” I said. “She works for the radio station.”
“Did you hear what they talked about?” Kim asked.
“Sure, they were sitting right here at the bar.”
“And?” I said. “What did they talk about?”
“This and that.” Greg sipped his beer. “She was asking him all kinds of questions.”
“Such as?”
“She wanted to know where he got his ideas for his books. He didn’t seem to want to talk about it. Then she was asking him some personal stuff. Like was he married and all.”
“Did they seem . . .” I wondered how to phrase it. “Intimate?”
“You mean like lovers?”
I nodded.
“I did get the feeling that she was coming on to him. You know, laying into him a bit.”
That was interesting. “How long did they stay? Did they leave together?”
“The woman left after about forty minutes. She split the minute Duvall showed up.”
“Frank Duvall?” I asked.
“Yep. Frank comes in now and again for a drink. Especially after he’s made a delivery.
“Your pal and Frank took a seat at the booth over there.” Greg pointed to the back corner. “So don’t ask me what they were talking about.”
I swiveled my head toward the now empty booth. “So the two of them took a booth in the corner, and Wilcox left.” I drummed my fingers against the bar. What did it mean, if anything?
“Yep. Of course, it wasn’t just the two of them. When the lady showed up, she joined them.”
“What lady? Was it Rose Smith?”
Greg furrowed his brow. “Who?”
I described the bookshop owner. “She owns Bookarama in town.”
“I don’t read a whole lot of books,” Greg remarked. “But the woman you described doesn’t sound like the one that was in here. That one had short hair and glasses.”
“Cara Siskin,” I said.
“Who was that again?” Kim asked. She had finished her burger and was twisting the remaining French fry in her fingers.
“The publicist Mason was working with.”
I pushed my hands through my hair in frustration. “Okay. So Mason comes here with Violet Wilcox. Then what? He leaves with Cara Siskin?” She hadn’t denied that the two of them were sleeping together. So she could have spent the night with Mason. I had to have been wrong about Rose and Mason’s budding relationship.
Greg shook his head. “Your friend, Mason, left alone. That woman and Frank, they stayed a while though.” He turned to his wife. “Ain’t that right, Martha?”
“Tuff’s right, ladies. I served them myself.”
“Do you have any idea what they were talking about?” It seemed odd to me that the farmer and the publicist would have had anything in common that would have kept them in the bar together after Mason had gone. Wasn’t Mason the common thread?
“No idea.” Martha joined us at the bar. “Every time I went to the table to refill their drinks, the whole lot of them shut up. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a friendly conversation.”
“They were arguing?” I asked.
“Working in a bar you get pretty good at reading body language, and from the way those three bodies were behaving, I’d guess it wasn’t exactly a lovefest.” She nudged her husband. “Did you tell them how Mason came in again the very day he was murdered, Tuff?”
“No, I didn’t get to that.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“Around lunch,” Greg explained. “Not that he ate anything.”
“No,” agreed Martha, “but he sure did drink, didn’t he, Tuff?”
Greg nodded. “That he did.”
“Was he alone?” asked Kim. “Or were the others with him?”
“He was as alone as a lonesome whippoorwill,” Greg replied.
17
There had been nothing more to learn at Truckee’s Road Stop. I dropped Kim off at her house and called it a night. The next morning, as I was unlocking the door to Birds & Bees, I spotted Chief Jerry Kennedy heading toward the store by way of Ruby’s Diner.
“Good morning, Jerry.” I held open the door, and he stepped past me in his crisp brown uniform.
“Coffee on?”
I rolled my eyes. “Not yet. Didn’t you have your fill at the diner?”
He scowled in reply.
“Fine. I’ll start a pot.”
Jerry followed me to the kitchen in the rear of the store. “You were supposed to come see me. Since you didn’t, I figured I might as well come see you.”
Right, and get a free cup of coffee and a handful of peanuts, I thought as I scooped fresh coffee grounds into the filter tray. “Sorry. I’ve been busy.”
Jerry tipped back his cap. “We found a strong laxative in Mason Livingston’s stomach.”
I acted surprised because I didn’t want to get Anita in trouble. “Did it kill him?”
Jerry looked at me like I was crazy. “Jeez, Amy. You saw the guy. He was stabbed to death with a pair of scissors.”
“Right. I simply thought that maybe somebody really wanted him dead.”
“And?”
“And poisoned him, then stabbed him. Where did the scissors come from, by the way?”
“That I can tell you. Rose Smith says she kept them in a small jar at the register along with some pens and pencils. It’s one o
f the few things she has been willing to explain.” He hitched up his belt and opened my mini-fridge. “No pastries?”
“Sorry, like I said, I’ve been busy. Mom’s bringing something down later if you want to stick around.” Sure, it was peanut-flavored suet, but I’d let Jerry discover that for himself. I grabbed two mugs from the cabinet and set them on the counter beside the coffee maker. “Is it or isn’t it possible that Mason was poisoned first?”
“Oh, he was poisoned all right, but according to the medical examiner, it would never have killed him.” Jerry tittered. “It would have made him mighty uncomfortable, however.”
I could only imagine. “In other words, Mason didn’t take the laxative himself?”
“Nope. It’s highly unlikely anyway. There was no sign of any capsules or pills. The man had three things in his gut: laxative, wine, and chocolates.”
That didn’t sound like a very pleasant combination. “Before you ask, I have no idea how the bisacodyl got in those chocolate-covered cherries I gave him.”
Jerry narrowed his eyes at me. “How did you know it was bisacodyl, Simms?”
“Well, I—” The coffee pot beeped. “Oh, look. The coffee’s done.” I poured us each a cup. “Cream and sugar, right?
I held out the sugar bowl, and Jerry reluctantly spooned some into his cup. “Did you analyze the wine?”
“The laxative wasn’t in the wine. It was in your lousy chocolates.”
“I wouldn’t let Otelia Newsome hear you call her chocolates lousy,” I joked.
Jerry didn’t think I was funny. “There were several more uneaten chocolates containing that drug in that box of yours.”
“Wow.” I didn’t know what else to say. “I didn’t put it there, Jerry.”
“I didn’t figure you did.” He seemed reluctant to admit it. “So who did?”
“You mean who else handled the chocolates?” I gave it some thought. “Esther bought them. Surely you don’t suspect her.”
Jerry pulled a face. “Of course, not. That old lady’s harmless.”
I wasn’t so sure I’d agree with Jerry’s characterizing Esther as “harmless,” but I didn’t think she would poison anybody’s chocolates. Steal them while they weren’t looking? Yes. Poison them? No. “The chocolates sat here in the store until the night of the signing.”