Cold Wind to Valhalla (Abby Fouchet Mysteries Book 3)

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  “Not much. She remarked like you that it was interestin’ me havin’ the name Garrity because of this clown lady. She did ask how long I’d lived in New York and I told her since Nineteen-forty-six when my family moved here. I was only a small lad at the time. She seemed disappointed, like she would’ve been happier if I’d said my ancestors came over with the big Irish move of the early nineteen-hundreds and had big Garrity reunions every year.”

  I started to ask him if he knew whether he was related to any Garrity’s that had been in New York at that time when the only other customer in McCartney’s waved at him.

  “Colin, I think you’re wanted.”

  “Ah. I am at t’at. Let me take care of the gentleman. Are ya needin' anythin’ else?”

  “I’m good. I’ll save room for bread pudding though.”

  “‘Tis surely the best in Manhattan and no mistake. But you eat your dinner, now. Get some color back inta tose cheeks.”

  “Thanks.”

  He took off and my thoughts immediately shifted from Diamond to Colette. Further confirmation we were on the right track. She was definitely interested in Cinnamon’s background. Not that knowing that as a certainty helped in knowing who’d shot her or why. My brain hurt trying to figure out what anything had to do with anything else. I ate. I finished my second Irish Rickey. And Colin Garrity came back with a glass of water and a large bowl of bread pudding with what had to be real ‘hard’ sauce topping it. I took one bite and immediately resolved to make McCartney’s my go-to place in the city for bread pudding. I glanced up at Colin. “I want to marry your cook. I don’t care who he is. I just want this once a day for the rest of my life.”

  He laughed. “Tat’d be me. And I tank ya fer the compliment but my wife of forty years would be a mite upset if I left her. But, we’re open nearly every hour a’ every day and I’ll be sure to have plenty on hand if ya let me know yer comin’ in. What’s yer name, lass?”

  “Abby Fouchet.”

  “Abby? 'tis a bit of an Irish name that is. Shame it's endin' with the French." He smiled.

  "Well, it's supposed to end up as Gerard at some point when the Irish gentleman owning that last name and I get around to finding a good priest to do the honors."

  “Ah. Much better.” He stopped for a second. “So, kin ya tell me what’s all this about the other Garritys?”

  His tone was interested and sympathetic. Perhaps a fresh ear could shed some light on the reasons Colette’s last thoughts had been with Cinnamon.

  “Can you sit for a second?”

  He smiled. “I’m the owner, lass. I can do whatever I like.” He took a seat across from me and within seconds I was spilling everything that happened from the instant Colette Currie had been shot until today. I didn’t list any suspects. I mainly kept to the narrative about theories of silent films and patents.

  Colin stayed silent until I got to the events at the Cameo Theatre this afternoon, then exclaimed, “What! I saw the police cars buzzin’ around but had no idea it was that bartender bein’ shot. And I truly hadn’t realized until you told me t’at it was the same girl who’d been here in the bar askin’ about Garritys who’d been shot a few weeks ago. She was in here with a gentleman and never give her name, she did.”

  “A gentleman? Did he give his name?”

  Colin shook his head. “Nah. They were both upset. I see a lot of t’at in here so I didn’t want to bother them but I remembered her because of the Garrity questions.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Now, that’d be a mite harder. Seems like he was tall but I didn't see him standin'. Brown hair. Blue eyes.”

  I closed my own eyes. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Great. That fit nearly every damned male who was even peripherally involved in Colette’s murder except for Taylor Mills who was African-American and Omar Richards who not only wasn’t a gentleman but was too young for Colette to be slurping Irish Rickeys with.

  Colin dropped his volume slightly even though we were now the only two people in the pub. “So, do ya know what happened this afternoon? At t’at theatre? You said there was another shootin’?”

  I nodded. “No one was killed, thank God. The woman is in critical condition last I heard which was about an hour and a half ago. I’m waiting for a friend of mine to come back and tell me if he’s learned anything else. Uh. He’s a journalist.”

  “Who was shot?”

  “The bartender. Diamond Richards is her name.”

  “Ah.” Colin frowned. “I’m glad she’s not dead because I’m a good Christian and I don’t wish harm to my fellows on earth but let me tell ya, Abby, she’s not and never has been a lady.”

  I blinked. “You know Diamond?”

  “I do indeed. She’s been in here more times than I care to remember. Likes her booze. Funny her tendin’ bar, ya know. Most of us who’re around the whiskey don’t drink a lot. Either on or off the job. And my regular bartenders hated to see her comin’—said she was a lousy tipper. Anyway, she was always in here with a different man. And God forgive me, but I couldn’t call most of ‘em gentlemen either. Well, all but one I’d say.”

  “Really? Do you know who he was? Is?”

  Colin stayed silent.

  “Colin, I’m not asking to be a gossip or create scandal. This is important. I didn’t tell you who my friends and I suspect because I don’t want to gossip or create scandal and I sure don’t want to blacken someone’s name without any proof, but if this guy is someone who also knew Diamond it might really help in figuring out who shot her and who killed Colette.”

  “I’d tell ya if I knew. Honest I would. But none of her lads ever gave a name. Funny though. Another with brown hair and blue eyes. I do know this one seemed more regular with Diamond than the others and I did see him pull up a time or two in a fancy red car. Sporty.”

  “Corvette?”

  He smiled. “I couldn’t be sayin’. Never have driven one myself since I’ve lived in Manhattan most o’ my life and never even set foot in the driver’s seat of any vehicle so I’m not about payin’ much attention.”

  I was about to ask him if he could add more to the description of Diamond’s “gentleman” friend when Johnny appeared at my table.

  “Hey! Johnny, meet Colin Garrity. Owner of McCartney’s and baker of the finest bread pudding in the entire world. Uh. No relation to Cinnamon that we’ve been able to ascertain. Colin, this is Johnny Gerard, my betrothed and quite a Renaissance man." I grinned up at Johnny.

  He and Colin shook hands. Johnny slid into the booth across from me. “I see you’ve had more than just bread pudding. Should I ask how hard was the hard sauce?”

  “I’m fine. The hard sauce was fairly loaded and I had two Irish Rickeys but I’m totally sober and excited to tell you that Colin saw Diamond with a guy who drove a red sports car.”

  Johnny’s right eyebrow shot up. “My, my. You’ve been a busy little Vanessa Manilow while I’ve been at the Cameo, haven’t you?”

  Colin was obviously confused so Johnny explained about the soap opera while I finished my last bite of bread pudding and wondered if I could work off a second helping before having to appear in a corset and tap pants for Monday’s filming back in Thea Donovan’s bedroom in the Fontana Inn.

  Johnny finished his explanations about Endless Time then immediately asked Colin if he could describe the guy with the red sports car.

  “Brown hair, blue eyes,” I stated before Colin had a chance to repeat what he’d told me.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Colin stared up at the ceiling. “Ya know, he might have paid with a credit card the last time he was in with Miz Richards. I normally wouldn’t check records but if it helps you solve a murder I’ll be glad ta take a look. It was only last night after all. And I liked your friend, the one askin’ about the Garritys? Colette, it is? Anythin’ I can do to help bring her killer to justice, I’ll do. Ain’t right. Young sweet lass like that dyin’.

  I nod
ded. Colin headed for a door that must lead to an office as well as the kitchen.

  “So, Johnny. Anything interesting at the Cameo? Any news on Diamond?”

  “As to the former, no. I questioned actors— who were blessedly clothed. I questioned the new stage manager. I questioned all the folks who’d been questioned by the police two hours earlier and came up with nada. As to Diamond, latest word is she’s out of surgery, but still in the I.C.U. and unable to talk. Hopefully she’ll be able to tell the cops what happened by early tomorrow morning. Gordon promised to keep me in the loop.”

  I told him about Colette coming in with someone who was also tall with brown hair and blue eyes and asking Colin about the Garrity name. “I gather Colette’s gentleman friend wasn’t the same as Diamond’s because Colin would have remembered that.”

  “Well, crap. If it was the same guy that would have narrowed that suspect pool a bit. At least for us. The police are currently thinking robbery as a motive for shooting Diamond.”

  “Are you serious? What about Colette?”

  He shrugged. “Still going with accident. A joke gone wrong. Gordon is pissed beyond belief and raising hell with his superiors but he can’t do much since he got taken off the case the day after Colette was shot.”

  “He what? I thought he’d been on it this whole time.”

  “Nope. He couldn’t say anything until arrests were made but he was removed from the case because his captain deemed it accidental and he was needed to investigate some really nasty arms dealing going on in Queens with ties to a Manhattan gang. A compliment to him but bad for solving Colette’s murder.”

  My head was reeling. “Wow. Wait. Arms dealing in Queens. Why didn't he tell us?”

  “No one knew. Apparently, there have been more leaks in certain parts of the police department than a toddler sans diapers so only a few very trusted detectives were clued in as to when the big raid in Queens would take place. Gordon actually wasn’t at the Cameo just now. He’s been in Queens half the day arresting folks. “

  “Wow."

  “Yeah."

  While I tried to digest the idea of dealing with truly bad criminal types, Colin returned with a slip of paper in his hand. He gave it to Johnny and scowled. “I knew I didn’t like either Diamond Richards or her fella. Look at that. A sixty-dollar tab and a lousy five per cent tip for Shannon who waited on them.”

  “Definitely rude,” I commented.

  Johnny stayed silent as he tried to read the handwriting on the charge slip. “It’s as messy as a doctor who’s been writing prescriptions for forty years, but if I'm right I give you Diamond Richards’ gentleman friend—Mr. Kaleb Townshend.”

  Chapter 30

  “Get away from him, you slut!” (Vanessa, as Thea, moves away from Gilberto Davies in terror.) (Pretty self-evident, gang. Didn’t need that added to the script. Barbie Shapiro, playing actress Fredericka Reed in this scene, is holding a gun on Thea and Fredericka isn’t happy because Fredericka is apparently also having an affair with Gilberto who is turning out to be one major player with the ladies. Of course, Thea is also having an affair with Dennis Noone. I was getting a headache trying to figure out how much bed hopping had been happening in a total of ten hour-long episodes.)

  “Fredericka! My God! Don’t shoot! Don’t you see he’s been cheating on both of us? And his wife!” (Thea cringes near the vanity table) (Well, yee-howdy-ho but ol’ Gilberto really is one slimy dog. If his grandson was this much of a Casanova type, it could get interesting for the ‘current’ scenes if the script writers decided to keep the quadrangle going between Gilberto Davies the Third, Letitia, Gregory Noble and Vanessa Manilow.)

  I pulled my focus back to cringing. Dusty, as Gilberto, was delivering his lines with great energy and having way too much fun. “Fredericka! I swear to you, Thea means nothing to me and I’ve already told my wife it’s over. We can go away together now. Today. Just put away the gun!” Dusty moved toward the opposite side of the room from me. Barbie stayed in the doorway, swinging the gun back and forth.

  “Over! Over? You claim it’s over. Then why did your wife tell me she’s having your baby?”

  (Well, finally. A normal soap opera plot.)

  It was almost time for my next action sequence. The script called for me to signal Dusty/Gilberto with some sort of silent communication and then make a beeline for the door, with both of us tackling Barbie at the same time since she couldn’t shoot us while we were at opposite ends of the room. In the middle of all this action, Johnny, as Dennis Noone, was supposed to pop in and get shot along with me as Thea.

  “Cut!”

  I relaxed. Barbie’s stunt double was about to do her thing for the upcoming tackling since Barbie did not handle physical action well if it involved crashing to the floor. I didn’t have a stunt double. The producers were well aware that I'd been crashing to floors since the first day Vanessa showed up last August. Or bouncing along cliff ledges which now fell into the been there/done that category. I hadn’t yet been asked to be blown out of a large cannon but had already begun researching ways and means to survive such a feat if the script called for that particular activity. If the end results were big bruises on Abby’s body, then by golly, the producers wanted Abby to do her own stunts. I almost missed the simplicity of roller-skating in Starlight Express on stage, although that had resulted in a broken ankle. Come to think of it, I'd never had a major injury doing the ridiculous stunts on the soap but had suffered two breaks for stage shows, thankfully both during rehearsals. The first, dancing in Jesus Christ Superstar, had been rather fortuitous since I ended up being rushed to the doctor's by none other than Johnny Gerard who was playing Pilate. That's how we officially met.

  “Take five, everyone!” Max yelled. “It’s repositioning camera time.”

  Good. That meant it was coffee, muffin and grab Johnny for the latest on what had happened after we discovered Kaleb Townshend had been better acquainted with Diamond Richards than we supposed. I knew the immediate result of that discovery—the telling to Detective Gordon Clark, who informed Johnny that Mr. Townshend would be questioned “casually” about his involvement with Diamond. The police had no real reason to arrest him. Owning and even lending a red Corvette is not a crime unless the lendee crashes said vehicle without insurance or runs over some poor pedestrian in the cross walk. At any rate, having dinner in an Irish pub with someone—married or not—is also not considered exactly major-arrest-worthy in fine Manhattan legal circles.

  I headed for the food service table, grabbed a mug and a healthy-looking muffin that doubtless had more sugar and fat than the donuts Dusty was scooping up, then took my brunch outside the studio where Johnny was also downing coffee but foregoing sugar by opting for croissants.

  “Johnny? So?”

  “So, not much.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That means that Gordon Clark had a nice sit-down with Kaleb Townshend and was even discreet about the when and the where so that Mrs. Kenny-Anne would not be in the room. According to Gordon, Kaleb stated that he was indeed was acquainted with the delectable Diamond Richards—his words. He did not admit to having an affair with her. He said he never lent her his Corvette which he stressed is his baby and not lent to anyone including his wife, and he also stated that that he did not kill his cousin-in-law Colette, nor did he try to shoot Ms. Richards yesterday and was horrified to hear than anyone could even imagine he would do either of those evil acts.”

  I snorted. “Alibis?”

  “Ah. Mr. Townshend’s alibi for both events is Kenny-Anne.”

  “Seriously? He claims he was with his wife when her cousin and his mistress were shot? Was shot? Whatever the grammatical singular or plural before the shot is.”

  Johnny responded, “Yep. He does. By the way, the easiest way around that is to split the question into two sentences so you can use ‘was’ in each and be certain you are not offending grammarians around the globe.”

  “Sorry I brought it up.
I forgot you taught junior high English for a semester or two. So, where does Kaleb state he and Kenny-Anne were at the time of these shootings?”

  “You’re going to love this.”

  “Probably not.”

  “True. You’re going to hate it but you’re also going to savor the complete irony.”

  “Johnny, would you quit stalling?”

  “Fine. Kaleb and Kenny-Ann were at the silent film festival down in that old theatre on Jane Street during Colette’s shooting. The Little Tramp, starring Mr. Charlie Chaplin. Anyway, not the kind of thing that’s easy to prove or to disprove.”

  “True. Okay. I’m afraid to ask—what about for when Diamond was shot?”

  “This is even better—or worse—depending on how you look at it. They were at the circus.”

  “Circus? Here? In Manhattan? I didn’t know circuses played here. Cool!”

  Johnny shook his head. “Not in Manhattan. This was in Brooklyn. Brighton Beach. Which is why you didn't get to see the line-up of the whitefaces and red noses and floppy shoes not to mention lions, tigers, bears and tightropes stretched across Times Square. I promise we'll get tickets to the one at Brighton Beach and I'll even buy you popcorn and hot dogs and cotton candy if you so desire. At any rate, that's where the 'K' Townsends were when Diamond was dodging bullets."

  “I guess that's really hard to prove when it comes to alibis. Ticket stubs? Time stamped photos?”

  “Gordon asked and was informed that since Kaleb and his lovely wife did not know they would be needing an alibi for either shooting, they did not collect any proof unless one counts the non-time-stamped photos from one of those cramped little booths that takes four or five quickie pics. Gordon also said Kaleb was charming and co-operative and that he— that’s Gordon—would have loved to have punched him out simply for being way too handsome and way too rich. But, he did not arrest him because there is no evidence linking him to either crime and one can’t be arrested for being too charming or rich.”