The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle

by Laura Disilverio

  “You up for this?” I asked as he headed out in his hatchback midafternoon, with a binder including the guest list, the evening’s schedule, a diagram of the event area, bios for the presenters and special guests, phone numbers for the caterer, the party-supply company, and other vendors we’d hired for the evening, and more.

  “I’ve got this, boss,” he said, sounding confident, but tweaking at his polka-dot bow tie the way he did when he was nervous. “I just wish I didn’t have a statistics test tomorrow.”

  “I can fill in—”

  “Nope.” He held up a hand to stop me. “This is mine. Time to pop my cherry.” He blushed. “Er, I mean—”

  “I know what you mean,” I said, suppressing a grin. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll be at the pub, but I can always get away if you need—”

  “Will do, boss.”

  “And stop calling me boss,” I yelled after his car as he drove off.

  Before he was out of sight, my phone rang. Hart. “Hey,” I answered, a smile in my voice.

  “Hey back. I saw your brother made bail. I’m glad.”

  “Yeah, me, too. Anything new?”

  “Amy-Faye, you know I can’t—”

  “I know, I know,” I said, walking into my office as I talked. “I thought you might blurt out something useful if I took you by surprise. I guess I’m not up to Hercule Poirot standards yet. Give me time.”

  He laughed. “Are you doing anything tonight? With the chief back, I’ll get off a bit earlier, and I thought we might—”

  “I’m bartending at Elysium for Derek,” I said. “My parents have taken over running the pub while he’s, well, you know. My sister and I are helping out. I’ll buy you a beer if you want to drop by, though.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  • • •

  Clad in the orange shirt with “Sam” over the pocket, I took charge of the bar again Wednesday night. I felt more comfortable behind the bar tonight, maybe because I knew my way around, or maybe because we were all pulling together to help Derek. The orange upholstery was warmly welcoming inside, and the setting sun and cooling air made the outside patio equally hospitable. Mom was in the kitchen, talking to the cooks and figuring out what happened back there, and Dad was in Derek’s office, familiarizing himself with the accounting system. There were more customers than there’d been last Wednesday when I filled in, and I took that as a positive sign, even though I knew some of them might only have been ghouls attracted by Friday’s tragedy.

  Bernie reported for her shift on time, and grinned at the sight of me slicing lemons and limes. “Just can’t stay away from here, can you?” she said.

  I started to explain what we were doing, but she said, “Yeah, I know. Your mom called earlier. I’m guessing she called all the employees. I think it’s great that you all are sticking by Derek like this. When I got myself in trouble and Billy was on the way, my folks gave me the old heave-ho.” She didn’t sound bitter, but I eyed her as she pulled her round serving tray out from under the counter.

  “How is Billy?” I asked.

  “You know those Mayhem commercials for some insurance company? That’s Billy. Things around him seem to erupt or explode or cave in, but he always walks away from it, even if on crutches or in a cast sometimes. Gawd. Take my advice: Girls are the way to go. What I wouldn’t give for a daughter I could dress in those cute Gymboree dresses, who wanted to play quietly with Barbies or jacks.”

  I laughed, thinking of my niece, who was anything but quiet, and who was already a standout on the baseball team where she was the only girl. Before I could answer, a customer summoned Bernie and she took off, going into flirt-for-tips mode. The kitchen door opened and, to my astonishment, Kolby Marsh came out, clad in the orange Elysium Brewing Polo shirt and khakis. He slouched toward the bar and sent me a glance I couldn’t read from the corners of his eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” I blurted.

  “I work here,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant and failing.

  I searched my brain. Had Derek told me Kolby had quit, or had I just assumed it? “Why?” I asked. “Your mom told me that you’re going to inherit millions and that you’ve quit college.”

  “‘Going to,’” Kolby said, snitching a lemon from the divided dish and sucking on it. He screwed up his face. “Turns out, I don’t get the money right away. It’s going to take, like, months even. Probate or something. I need something to live on in the meantime. And a place to live. Mom’s moving in with that dude she’s been dating, and I’m out on the street. That dude Mom’s marrying, the cowpoke”—he gave the word a derogatory twist—“he’s convinced Mom that working is good for me, told her I should stand on my own two feet for at least a few months before I never have to work again. He’s worse than Dad. Said he could get me work on the ranch, mucking stalls or some such shit. Not the Kolby-meister, nosiree. I told him where he could stick his pitchfork. Mom was giving me grief about it, but I told her the job here was as much as I could handle and that I felt a responsibility to help out since the pub was important to Dad. She bought it.” He tried to suppress the look that said his mother was a sap, and failed. “Of course, I’ll need a salary now, but I figure Derek and me can come to terms, since he only has this place because of my dad.”

  Few things would have given me greater pleasure than to toss Mr. Entitlement out on his ear, but it wasn’t my place. We were short-staffed as it was, and Mom was in charge in Derek’s absence. I made a mental note to give her a heads-up about Kolby. “My mom’s managing the pub for the moment,” I told him, “so you’ll have to negotiate salary with her.”

  Kolby’s smile slipped slightly, but then he sauntered to a nearby booth and began taking orders. I made a pitcher of margaritas, a Bloody Mary, and a virgin daiquiri for one of Bernie’s tables while he was gone, and when he returned to the server station, I said, “I never told you how sorry I am about your dad. Everything was so chaotic that night, with the police and everything, but I’m really sorry. It’s got to be rough.”

  He looked at me through the fringe of dark blond hair. “That night was rough. Man! I’ve never been through anything like that. When I found him like that . . . I blew chunks. I’m not ashamed to admit it.” He looked slightly paler.

  “How did you manage to find him? I mean, why were you out at the Dumpster, in the rain?” A server’s duties didn’t take him or her out to the Dumpster, in the normal course of events.

  His eyes slid away from mine, but then his mouth took on a sly twist. “Sometimes a man needs a break.” He mimed holding a marijuana joint between his thumb and forefinger and sucked air noisily between pursed lips. “Know what I mean? I’ve got some good stuff and I’m willing to share.” He leaned toward me and leered. “I’m going to be a very, very rich man, you know.”

  Humanity would go the way of the dodo before I would date Kolby Marsh. “You were out back getting high? Alone?”

  “What can I say? The babes find the Kolby-meister irresistible. Just wait until they get a load of me in my new Ferrari California T. It’s got a turbocharged V-8, a triple fence diffuser, and a T-top.” He mimed one hand on the steering wheel with his arm resting along an open window. “I’ve already got one picked out. The color’s called ‘Rosso California.’ That’s red. The salesman is just waiting for me to give him the go-ahead. You can call shotgun now for the first time I take her for a spin.” He winked, picked up his tray, and delivered it to his table.

  I hadn’t so much as touched his hand, but I felt the urge to wash mine. I did, lathering heavily, and wondering if Kolby was telling the truth. Had he really gone outside for a toke? Entirely possible. I found it harder to believe he’d convinced some girl to go with him in the pouring rain. I was mulling it over when a man’s voice said, “Can a guy get some service around here?”

  I jerked around, dropping the towel I was using to dry my hands.
“Doug! I didn’t know you were coming tonight.” He sat on a stool, arms on the bar, grinning with pleasure at having surprised me. He had ditched his suit jacket and tie, but still wore a white Oxford shirt and slacks as though he’d come from the office.

  “And I didn’t know you were moonlighting as a bartender.” He smiled. “I’ll have an Angel Ale, please.”

  As I poured the brew and waited for the head to subside, I told him why I was there. “I can take a shift, too,” he said immediately, “if you guys need me to. Who knows what kind of legal business I could pick up by sliding my card under each stein or pitcher?”

  I was touched, and smiled at him gratefully. “That’s really kind, Doug. Talk to my mom.” I placed the glass mug in front of him, and declined his twenty. “On me.”

  Swiveling so his back was to me, he surveyed the pub and announced, “I like this place. It’s got a nice feel. Homey, but funner.” He spun back around.

  “I don’t think ‘funner’ is a word.”

  “‘Livelier,’ then.”

  Playing with synonyms made me think of Al and I wondered how the library event was going. I checked my phone, but there were no calls or texts from him. Maybe I should just cruise by the library to see—? I took a deep breath and made myself believe the event was going swimmingly. I couldn’t leave. The crowd noise was increasing, people getting louder as happy hour wore on and they had more to drink. Over Doug’s shoulder I saw the door open. Two women strolled in, followed by Lindell Hart. His eyes found mine across the crowd and he smiled. I smiled back. Doug turned to see whom I was smiling at.

  “That’s the new detective, right?”

  “Right.”

  Hart had threaded his way through the crowd to us by then, and he shook hands with Doug. “Good to see you again, Elvaston.” The two men presented a contrast. Doug, blond, handsome, shorter, and more compact. Hart, with his curly brown hair, taller and lankier, wearing jeans and a University of Georgia T-shirt. I felt a little awkward, seeing them together like this, but they didn’t display any self-consciousness. Maybe Hart hadn’t heard that Doug and I used to be a thing. Doug knew I was dating Hart because I’d told him so, even before it was true, not wanting to go to his wedding without a date.

  Doug’s brow crinkled and I knew he was trying to figure out where they’d met.

  “The wedding,” Hart supplied. “Sorry it didn’t work out, man.”

  I liked that he tackled the tough subject casually, brought it out in the open as though it was nothing to be ashamed of. Which, of course, it wasn’t. Not for anyone besides Madison.

  Doug gave a rueful smile. “Better before the rings get put on than after, right? I hope you enjoyed the reception at least. My folks said it was a great party, even without a bride and groom. I heard the band’s lead singer got drunk and fell off the stage—broke his thumb.”

  Hart took a swallow from the beer I’d poured him. “I didn’t go. My date had to drive you to Denver, and I didn’t think it’d be much fun on my own.”

  “That’s right. You were there with Amy-Faye. Her plus one.”

  Was the look he was giving Hart an assessing one? I ducked away from the conversation to refill drinks along the bar and to take an order for the pub’s signature burger from the middle-aged man at the far end. When I drifted back to Hart and Doug, they were deep into a discussion of the upcoming college football season, and they hardly acknowledged my return. A tad miffed, I wiped down the bar and collected dirty mugs, offering my thoughts on the Buffs’ chances as I worked. Finally, some friends hailed Doug from a table and he excused himself to join them.

  “Nice guy,” Hart observed as Doug left.

  “We’ve been friends a long time,” I said.

  “So I’ve heard.” His eyes smiled at me. I must have looked a little flustered, because he added, “It’s a small town.”

  “Yeah, I noticed.”

  He began to relate a story about a traffic stop earlier in the day that was complicated when the pet ferret in the car bit the officer giving its owner a ticket. I laughed and reciprocated by telling him about letting Al run the library fund-raiser on his own. “It’s hard for me to let go,” I confessed. “I guess I’m something of a control freak.”

  “Probably a good trait for an event organizer,” Hart said. He hesitated, and then asked, “How’s your brother holding up?”

  “As well as can be expected, I guess,” I said, appreciating that he was willing to skirt the edge of our “don’t discuss the case” agreement by asking about Derek.

  “I’ve heard good things about his lawyer. Word is she doesn’t back down,” he said.

  “I got that feeling from her.”

  Before the conversation could veer to more neutral topics, my mom pushed through the kitchen’s swinging door and headed toward us. Before the pub ever opened, Derek had gotten my folks orange shirts like the uniform shirt I wore. Mom’s XXXL shirt made her look like a vast pumpkin, and had the phrase SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED printed where her name should have gone. Little did Derek know when he did that as a joke that it would soon be true; as far as the pub went, Mom was the big boss now.

  I introduced Hart to Mom and they chatted for a minute before Mom turned to me. “I’ve been told that this place hasn’t been cleaned since you ran off that janitor three days ago. Not that I blame you after what he did to the grand opening. And he might have murdered Gordon, after all. Not a desirable employee at all.”

  I resisted the urge to look at Hart when she said that. I was half hoping he’d say whether or not he’d found Foster and what the janitor had said, but he remained silent.

  Mom asked, “Do you have any recommendations for a service I could hire?”

  I pulled out my phone and read her off the numbers of two companies I had used in the past. She didn’t need to write them down; she’d always been able to memorize numbers.

  “In the meantime, I’m afraid . . .” She trailed off and looked at me meaningfully. It took me a moment to catch on.

  “Mo-om! You know I hate cleaning toilets.”

  “It’s for your brother, dear,” she said. “Just for tonight, until I can hire someone new.”

  “Fine,” I grumbled, “but I’m not touching the men’s room. Dad can do that.”

  Mom chuckled, the sound rich and cheering, and agreed that Derek or Dad could be responsible for the men’s room. “The kitchen staff and I have got a handle on the kitchen,” she said. “Once I explained to them that they wouldn’t have jobs if the health inspector closed us down, they pulled out the Lysol and elbow grease.” With a triumphant smile, she made her way back to the kitchen.

  Hart hid a smile in his almost-empty beer glass and refused a second when I offered. “Feisty woman, your mom. I see where you get it.”

  “Hmph.”

  We chatted in between my bartending duties for another fifteen minutes and then he stood to go. He surprised me by leaning across the bar to kiss me lightly on the lips. “It feels weird to leave you a tip,” he murmured, “so maybe this will do instead.”

  “Much better than twenty percent of nothing,” I agreed, tingling with the effervescence that bubbled up in me every time he touched me.

  I watched him go until the door closed behind him, and then I looked around. I realized with a start that Doug was gone and I hadn’t even noticed when he’d left.

  Chapter 18

  My Thursday morning started with a breakfast meeting I’d organized for the Chamber of Commerce. Accordingly, it was after ten by the time I got to the office. Approaching the French doors from the garden, I noticed blobs of color seemingly floating around the office. I picked up my pace, puzzled and a little concerned. I opened the door on a forest of balloons trailing long ribbons. One drifted out and up before I could snag it.

  “Close the door!” Al’s voice came from behind a wall of latex globes.


  I closed it. A strange hissing came from the direction of his desk. “What on earth—?”

  I batted the balloons out of my path and saw Al, operating the lever on a helium tank. “Gilda at Balloons-r-Us had a family emergency,” he said, tying off the inflated balloon and affixing a yellow ribbon tail. “She apologized in about eight languages and said we could have the helium tank for the day. No charge for any of this.” He gestured widely and the balloons floated across the reception area like colorful ghosts. “I think Timothy will like them, don’t you?”

  “What seven-year-old doesn’t like balloons?” I asked. “How’d it go last night?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Flawlessly?”

  “Faultlessly.”

  I beamed at him. “Of course it did. I never had a moment’s doubt.”

  “Ha! I know you checked your phone at least eight times, and probably got in the van twice to come over to the library.” He smiled to show that he didn’t mind that I had been the eensy-teensiest bit worried.

  “I did not get in the van,” I said with great dignity. “I served beers, blended margaritas, and cleaned toilets with nary a thought for you.”

  He snorted, but then asked, “Toilets?”

  I explained.

  “You’re a good sister.”

  The sincerity in his voice touched me. “I try to be,” I said, feeling awkward.

  “I’m pretty sure my sister would rather visit me in jail than clean a toilet on my behalf,” he said cheerfully, clearly bearing his sister no ill will. “In fact, I don’t know if she knows how to clean a toilet. We shared a bathroom growing up, and the best thing about moving into the dorms was no more smelly, pink, powdery girlie stuff in my bathroom.”

  “Just good old man-stink and mildew, right?”

  “Right.” He grinned.

  There was a knock on the door. I waded through the balloons to open it, surprised to find Courtney Spainhower, Derek’s lawyer, standing on the patio.