T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril

by T. Lynn Ocean

  “And?”

  “And all of a sudden, I’m thinking about him a lot. My father. I keep seeing people that remind me of Garland. Like at the restaurant, a stray bum came in to use the toilet. He could have been Garland’s double, in the face, anyway.” He looked again at the man on the playground, who’d gotten up and went strolling into the trees, binoculars pointed at the branches. “And that man there. Something about him made me think of Garland again. My mind is playing tricks on me.”

  “Let’s walk,” I suggested, and we made our way to a short nature trail. Naturally, Morgan would begin to wonder about his father, now that he’d taken charge of the restaurant. I had constantly wondered about my father, growing up, during the marines, and later, while chasing down bad guys. I wondered what he looked like, and if he’d married, and if I had any half sisters or brothers, and if he’d be proud of me. And most often, why had he left? Blood relationships are a strange and powerful thing.

  I asked Morgan if he could tell me anything else about the doctors and their prescription-writing activities. He shook his head: No, nothing.

  “How did you get this information?”

  He didn’t answer for several steps. Finally, “I overheard them talking.”

  “To whom?”

  “They were talking to each other. The three of them.”

  A pair of squirrels darted up a tree in front of us. “In Argo’s?”

  Morgan scooped to pick up a stone, tossed it into the trees. “Yes.”

  I asked if anyone else overheard the doctors’ conversation. No. I asked if Morgan had discussed the subject with anyone besides me. No. I asked if he’d been waiting on their table himself. No. I asked if they ever mentioned the name of the person or people they owed money to. No. I asked if Morgan was certain he’d heard things correctly. Yes.

  We stopped at a clearing and stared at a flock of twenty or thirty American goldfinches feeding in the bushes at the edge of a pond. About the size of a sparrow, they’re hot lemon yellow and beautiful. They always migrate south in the fall.

  “Exactly how did you manage to overhear such a private conversation, Morgan?”

  “I just happened to be in the restaurant at the same time they were, Jersey. That’s it. When I heard my mother’s name mentioned, my ears perked up and I kept listening. I heard everything perfectly clearly. And no, they obviously didn’t know that I could hear their conversation.”

  “So you were in the dining room, then?”

  He gave me a look that translated meant, Well, duh.

  We headed back to the visitor center, where we’d parked our cars. His nondescript sedan and my shiny black hearse. Morgan said he was going to the restaurant. I wanted to interview Deanna and asked him if Deanna was scheduled to work at Argo’s.

  “Not tonight, why?”

  “Just wondering if the head server gets to take off on weekends,” I fibbed.

  We pulled out and pointed our vehicles in opposite directions. I dialed Argo’s and, claiming to be Deanna’s next-door neighbor, asked for her cell number. I waited on hold for less than a minute before getting the information.

  When I dialed Deanna, she sounded almost breathless. “Hello?”

  “Deanna, hi, it’s Jersey. I’m a friend of Morgan’s.”

  “My boss, Morgan?”

  “Right. Listen, can I meet you somewhere to talk for a minute?”

  She was getting dressed to meet friends at Level 5 for drinks, she said. Afterward, they planned to see a musical comedy at City Stage. I needed only a few minutes, I told her, and I could meet her at the bar. She hesitated. I mentioned that I’d buy their first round of drinks.

  “Sure thing, then,” she said. “See you there.”

  Level 5 is, as its name suggests, located on the fifth floor of a hundred-plus-year-old Masonic building. It has an outdoor rooftop bar with an energizing view of downtown, an inside bar, and a two-hundred-seat theater. Interestingly, the building’s fourth floor consists of condos, the third floor is suite rentals, and the remainder of the building is occupied by businesses. If you’re ever in the area and want to check out Level 5, you’ll have to purchase an annual membership. One of those weird alcohol control things. The state of North Carolina says that to obtain an Alcoholic Beverage Control Commission permit to serve booze, an establishment must either have at least 30 percent food sales or become a private club. Since Level 5 doesn’t have a kitchen, they charge patrons five bucks each year to join. Some area bars only charge one dollar.

  Deanna was beneath the rooftop’s canopy with a cluster of hip, exfoliated, oiled, gelled, and scented friends. A quick introduction told me they were all hospitality people and a few were also up-and-coming actresses. The two of us moved away from the rest of the group, Deanna carrying a pineapple martini and me a Bass Ale in the bottle.

  “So what’s up? Are you another cop?”

  I should have known. “Fellow named Brad already talk to you?”

  She sipped, smiled. “He can interview me anytime. He’s the kind of guy I could bring home to Mom and Dad’s for dinner. And cute.” She stretched the word into three syllables for emphasis.

  “When did Officer Brad talk to you?”

  “Yesterday. Said he had to interview employees at a bunch of area restaurants. Dumb questions, really. Like he wanted to know if anyone still comes in asking for the previous owners. Garland and Rosemary. I mean, come on. Everybody knows they died.”

  I let the ale roll over the back of my tongue and breathed in the lively evening: freshly groomed people, drifting food smells from somewhere below, jasmine blooms, and a hint of earthy river scent.

  “I’ll try not to ask the same dumb questions,” I said. “Tell me about your new boss.”

  “Well. He’s like crazy shy. Or maybe you’d call it introverted. At first, he hated talking to people, but that’s sort of what a restaurant owner has to do, you know? He’s getting better about it, and every once in a while he seems to enjoy talking to the customers. I actually saw him smile the other day.”

  Her eyes went sparkly talking about Morgan. “What else?” I asked in my girl-to-girl voice.

  “I’ve had a crush on him since he first walked into Argo’s and introduced himself as the new owner. I keep hoping he’ll ask me out, since his fiancée broke it off with him.” She let out a dramatic sigh. “He’s not interested. He doesn’t go out with anybody, far as I can tell. I invited him to join us tonight, but he said he had to catch up on paperwork. Yeah, right.”

  “You think that was an excuse?”

  She ate the wedge of fresh pineapple from her martini glass. “Let’s just say he spends a lot of time locked in that office of his. The private one. Nobody’s allowed in there. Garland was the same way. But it can’t possibly take that much time to do restaurant paperwork.”

  “Why not?”

  Deanna’s people started laughing. She glanced their way. She was missing the party. I needed to speed it up.

  “Our head chef schedules his people, plans the menu, and does all the food ordering. I schedule everybody else and keep track of reservations and the hostesses. An accounting firm does our payroll and accounts payable.” Pinky outstretched, she got to the bottom of her martini. I caught the server’s attention and held up two fingers. I needed to keep Deanna talking for at least another five minutes.

  “Really,” she continued, “all Morgan has to do is keep an eye on things, approve payroll and invoices before they’re paid. Tend to the advertising and marketing. Though Argo’s is so well-known, we don’t do much advertising. So is he home catching up on paperwork tonight? Doubtful.”

  “Do you know the Divine Image Group?”

  “Sure. Everybody knows the doctors. They always sit at the Green Table, best seat in the house.”

  “You wait on them?”

  “Anytime I’m working, the Green Table is mine. Talk about kick-ass tips.”

  “You ever overhear people’s conversations in Argo’s?”

&nb
sp; “Of course. We hear people talk all the time. But they stop as soon as you walk up, you know? If it’s something private. Or romantic.”

  Somebody called her name, and Deanna said she’d be right there.

  “One last question. Is there anybody else, any other customers, who always sit at the Green Table?”

  She shrugged. “The people who know about the GT ask to sit there when they call, but it’s always reserved for VIPs. Of course, we have plenty of regulars we put there when they call for a reservation. But the docs are the only ones who have an ongoing, standing reservation, every single Friday. Been that way for years and years. Anytime they call for an additional reservation on a different day, chances are that whoever’s at the GT gets bumped. We’ll bump people from the GT for celebrities, too.” She shrugged again. “You know, whatever. The more special people think they are, usually, the better they tip. So hey, I don’t mind.”

  We walked back to Deanna’s friends and they immediately enveloped her to gossip about a pair of guys inside. I said my good-byes, paid for everyone’s drinks, and became their new best friend. I don’t customarily pick up the tab for people I don’t know, but Uncle Sam had reimbursed me nicely for my last assignment, when I was called back to active SWEET duty and forced to work on a roach coach, cooking egg biscuits on the side of the road. It’s a long story. But it did leave me with a bit of pocket money. Amid a chorus of well-wishes, I departed the rooftop with some interesting tidbits to contemplate.

  Driving to the Barnes Agency, I envisioned Argo’s dining room layout, focusing on the famous Green Table. Morgan said he’d simply overheard the Divine Image Group talking to one another—an obvious lie. You had to go up two steps to get to the table. Glass windows were on one side and walled artwork on the others. The GT, as Deanna called it, had its own cozy alcove. Morgan could not have overheard anyone sitting there, short of utilizing audio surveillance.

  The lights were on, and JJ’s car sat in the driveway of the Barnes Agency. I found her in the blue room, testing a laser range finder.

  “You’re working late tonight.”

  “Hey, Jersey. I’m part of patrol duty for an event in Seattle tomorrow. Threats of an assassination attempt.” She did a curtsy. “They’re even sending a jet for me.”

  “You should be honored,” I said. JJ replaced me at the Barnes Agency when I officially retired. She shoots a high-powered rifle better than anybody I know—male or female.

  “Honor doesn’t put gas in my tank,” she said. “But this job comes with a sweet paycheck.”

  “I’m down with that.” The Block rarely shows a profit. The Barnes Agency, on the other hand, pulls in some high-dollar contracts. “Hey, do we still have that fountain pen?” I asked. “The vibrating one?”

  “Missing Ox, are you?”

  “Ha, ha.” I made a face at her. “I need an audio bug detector. Something small and inconspicuous. Don’t we have a pen that vibrates when it detects specific wireless frequencies?”

  JJ rummaged through a shelf, found a case, produced the black fountain pen. It looked like a Montblanc. “It only has a range of three or four meters,” she said. “Good for checking whether or not an individual is wired when you’re talking to them. It actually writes, too.”

  “It should work for what I need at Argo’s.” I dropped the pen in my handbag.

  “How do you always manage to get the assignments with good food?”

  “It’s not an assignment. I no longer have assignments, because as you might recall, I am retired.”

  JJ laughed. “Better put a new battery in the pen. And make sure it’s not turned on until you’re ready to use it, or it’ll run out of juice.”

  “Thanks,” I told her. “Be careful in Seattle.”

  “That would be absolutely no fun at all,” she quipped.

  When I arrived home, the bar had an average crowd. I climbed the stairs to my apartment, once again thinking about Ox. How much I missed him. And Brad. How much he irritated me. Cracker was sleeping inside the kitchen door, waiting for me, and gave me a sleepy greeting. Spud’s apartment was dark, and I guessed that my father was spending his night at Fran’s place, which meant no fresh-baked goods for me. Hungry, I peered into the fridge. It was so empty, it nearly echoed when I opened the door. A jar of mustard, some olives, deli meat, and a gallon of milk. No beer. I got the shaved turkey to make a sandwich, only to realize I was out of bread, but Cracker was happy to have the meat plain. He swallowed each slice without bothering to chew.

  If I went downstairs for food and beer, I’d have to be social. I didn’t feel like being sociable. And I couldn’t very well ask one of the employees to deliver. One last search through the fridge revealed a bottle of Chardonnay in the bottom vegetable drawer. Neither Spud nor I drink wine. The Chardonnay was probably a gift. No telling how long it had been in there. Good thing is, wine doesn’t have an expiration date.

  I went to bed with the chilled bottle and a glass and watched an old black-and-white movie with Cracker snoring beside me, and I drank until I fell asleep, dreaming that the leading roles in From Here to Eternity were played by Ox and me.

  NINETEEN

  Trying to eliminate an obnoxious headache that wouldn’t go away, I swallowed three Excedrin tablets and drank a glass of tomato juice, standing behind the bar. I’d woken up feeling as though I’d been beaten up and immediately remembered why I don’t drink wine. I had the mother of all hangovers. It was midday, and I was bartending for the afternoon to help take up the slack in Ox’s absence. As long as a group of tourists didn’t come in and ask for silly-sounding drinks like a Dixie Stinger or a Buttery Nipple, I’d be fine.

  Thinking about dunking my pounding head in the ice bin, I heard something strange coming from the ceiling. Ruby elbowed me and pointed up. She’d heard it, too. We stopped what we were doing to listen. Faint scuffling sounds filtered intermittently through the Block’s PA system. Staring at a ceiling-mounted speaker, we definitely detected muffled voices.

  The only two places where an employee can address the Block’s patrons using the built-in public address system are from the hostess stand at the main entrance and from the back office, which is really a desk tucked into one corner of the kitchen. But nobody worked the hostess stand. The Block’s customers know to seat themselves. Even on busier weekend nights when there is a hostess working, we never use the PA system. With a foggy brain, I stared curiously at the ceiling, willing my headache to ease up.

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Frannie!” my father’s voice suddenly boomed through the speakers, all ten of them. A smattering of customers looked around to see what was going on. “I ain’t never gonna be able to do this.”

  “Come on, baby,” Fran crooned. “You said you’d try. It’ll be fun once you get it going!”

  “I can’t get it up,” Spud’s amplified voice complained to the entire Block. “It won’t come up.”

  A ripple of laughter rolled through the bar. Whatever my father and his girlfriend were up to, they’d managed to turn on the PA system and lock the button in the on position. A screech of feedback sounded, and from somewhere, Cracker let out a loud, soulful howl. I felt like joining him. Trying not to roll my eyes—because it would probably hurt—I poured two draft beers and served them to a couple of off-duty firefighters.

  “It’s like riding a bike,” Fran told about twenty-five people, not including those sitting on the outside patio and any passersby who’d stopped to listen. “It seems impossible, but then all of a sudden, there you go! Pedaling down the street with the wind in your hair.”

  Sloppy kissing noises filled the Block. “I know you can do it,” Fran said. “Come on, sweetie. Try it again, for me.”

  Amplified shuffling noises filtered through, along with what sounded like a computer keyboard. “Dammit, woman, it won’t come up!”

  The Block had fallen into a stunned silence. A few laughed out loud. I hustled into the kitchen, wondering why the cook hadn’t put a stop to my fathe
r’s exploits. Oddly, it was business as usual in the kitchen. Nobody paid a bit of attention to my father and his girlfriend. I moved around the food prep area to see Spud sitting at the desk in front of the Block’s sole computer, Fran leaning over his shoulders.

  “What are you doing at my desk, Spud?” I yelled.

  “Trying to check my e-mail, for crying out loud. But it won’t come up.”

  Laughter filtered in from the dining room, and I remembered that the PA system was engaged. I found the switch and clicked it off.

  “I bought your daddy a computer,” Fran told me. “They’re delivering it tomorrow. So I’m giving him a lesson on how to do e-mail.”

  “I’m putting in the stupid password and it still won’t come up!”

  Fran told him that the caps lock key was probably turned on.

  “What’s a damn catslock tee?”

  She patted him on the shoulder. “Maybe we should work on using your cell phone first, before we do computer lessons.”

  “Fine.” He scowled at the computer. “But I want to Google myself first.”

  By the time my shift ended, my headache had disappeared and I’d only had to make one round of Banana Boat shooters. I felt perky enough to hit CC’s Hair Boutique in search of the elusive Theresa. But first, keeping my fingers crossed, I dialed Soup.

  “Yo, Jersey,” he answered. “You calling to welcome me back?”

  “How was Amsterdam?”

  “Fantastic. At least what I can remember of it. I brought you some happy pops. Sort of like a lollipop, but these have a special ingredient, only for adults.”

  “Are they legal here?”

  “Probably not,” he said. “And since you only call when you need something, go ahead. Lay it on me. Don’t worry about the fact that I haven’t even unpacked yet.”

  I told him about the Divine Image Group doctors and gave him what little information I had on them. “I need everything you can find. Upbringing, where they went to med school, any patient lawsuits or warnings from the state medical board. Employees. Marriages, divorces, kids. Financial records. The works.”