The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle

by Laura Disilverio

  “—with that effing company for twenty-eight years. Wouldn’t you think that deserved some consideration, some loyalty on their part? Oh no. I’m out on my ear. Two weeks’ severance. Have a nice life. One minute I’m an HR executive and vice president, looking forward to a comfortable retirement, maybe a condo in Florida, and two seconds later I’m on the unemployment line, hoping I don’t lose my house. They had security escort me out, like I was embezzling or stealing company secrets. It was humiliating.”

  Maud’s voice blended bitterness and pathos very effectively. She swallowed the last of her drink in one extravagant gesture, and snapped the glass onto the bar. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be bothering you with my troubles. You can’t understand unless you’ve been there.” She signaled for another drink. If she’d looked like Meryl Streep earlier, now she reminded me of Charlotte Rampling in that Paul Newman lawyer movie: sexy, disillusioned, angry.

  “I’ve been there,” Foster said eagerly, almost slipping off the stool as he swiveled to face Maud. His eyes were bleary and his lips slack, but his diction was hyperprecise, not slurry. I’d bet he’d been here drinking since noon. “Laid off by a man not fit to shine my shoes. Fact. Not that they need shining.” He waggled one foot and the untied laces danced. “‘Laid off.’ What does that even mean? Let’s call it what it is, right? Fired. The other F word.” He laughed at his wit and insisted on adding Maud’s drink to his tab.

  “She should be an actress,” Al said, setting down two foaming mugs and a plastic bowl of popcorn. “I was right there by them, heard every word, and she should absolutely be in Hollywood.”

  Having learned so many new things about Maud recently, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that she had been a Hollywood actress.

  Putting a finger to my lips to shush him, I leaned toward the bar as far as I dared, pretending to stretch and scooting my chair back several inches. My hat slipped over my eyes and I pushed it back a hair so I could see. Al had his eyes fixed on the pair like he was watching a movie, totally unsubtle. He shoveled a handful of popcorn into his mouth, reinforcing the movie idea.

  “—out on my ass—just like that.” Foster tried to snap his fingers. “But that bastard got his.” He nodded slyly.

  “How so?” Maud asked, keeping her voice casual.

  “Got what he deserved,” Foster said, nodding like a bobblehead. “Arrogant bastard.”

  Maud tried again. “What did he get?”

  “Dead.”

  Maud leaned her upper body toward Foster, ready to receive his confidence. “You killed him?” she whispered, her look suggesting he deserved a prize, if so. I didn’t hear the words so much as read her lips.

  Al started, his knee bumping the rickety table, and his mug toppled. Pale golden beer spilled across the table, dribbling to the floor and into my lap. The cold liquid immediately saturated my slacks. Al flushed beet red, stuttered, “I’m so sorry,” and tried to sop up the mess with his four-inch-square bar napkin, which dissolved on contact with the beer.

  Maud and Foster, along with half the other patrons, looked at us. I kept my head bowed, dabbing ineffectually at my slacks with my napkin, hoping Foster wouldn’t recognize me.

  “Use this,” the bartender said, slinging a damp cloth toward Al. He caught it and stood to make a better job of blotting up the beer.

  “Hey, I know you,” Foster said.

  I peeped through my lashes to see him staring at me.

  “You’re her.” He seemed to struggle for my name or a descriptor that didn’t cover half the population. He failed. “That one. Her.”

  “I’m going to clean up in the restroom,” I announced. Trying to keep my back to Foster, I rose and started to squelch toward a dark hall where I hoped to find the facilities.

  “You were telling me what you did to get back at the jerk who laid you off,” Maud said.

  Her attempt at distraction didn’t work. “You’re her. From that other bar where Marsh got killed.”

  That stopped conversation bar-wide. Only the announcer’s voice from the football game, lamenting a fumble, and Carrie Underwood singing about a wife and mistress killing the man who done them wrong kept the room from total silence.

  Why did Hercule Poirot not have moments like this? No one ever soaked his pants so it looked as if he’d peed himself. No one ever caught on to his game when he was staking them out or leading them into a clever interview trap. Should I hide in the restroom or confront Foster? “I don’t think we’ve met,” I mumbled, continuing toward the ladies’ room. I tried the door. It was locked.

  “Just a minute,” a voice called from inside.

  I heard the thud as Foster slid off the stool and his feet hit the floor. “Are you following me?” he asked. “Spying on me?”

  I half turned. “No, of course not! I—”

  “’Cause you’re not the kinda woman hangs out in a dive like this. You must be—”

  “Hey,” the bartender (and owner?) said in a wounded voice. “If the Long Shot ain’t good enough for you, Foster, you can haul your heinie out of here. In fact, I’m gonna call your wife.” He pulled a cell phone out of his apron pocket and dialed from memory. It obviously wasn’t the first time he’d had to call Anita Quinlan to haul her husband home.

  That got a few titters from onlookers, who went back to their drinking, game watching, and conversations. The woman in the restroom came out and I ducked inside. It was small but surprisingly clean. I used paper towels to try to rinse some of the beer out of my slacks and then splashed water on my flushed cheeks. When I emerged, Al was sitting beside Maud at the bar, and Foster was nowhere in sight.

  “Where’s Foster?” I asked when I reached them.

  “Waiting for his ride outside,” Maud said. “He tried to follow you into the restroom, so Mel here”—she nodded toward the bartender—“suggested he get some fresh air.”

  “I’m so incredibly sorry,” Al said, looking downcast. “I ruined our operation, alerted our target to our presence, and just totally tubed it.”

  Maud said, “I guess we need to pull your double-oh rating.” She grinned. “Really, Frink, it’s no big deal.”

  “But he was right on the verge of saying he killed Gordon,” Al said.

  “Maybe yes, maybe no,” I said. “Did you hear how he said ‘that bar where Marsh got killed,’ or something like that? He didn’t say ‘that bar where I killed Marsh,’ or ‘that pub where I tossed Marsh off the roof.’ He’s three sheets to the wind, so he probably isn’t thinking too quickly, and yet he didn’t say anything incriminating in the heat of the moment.” I shrugged. “I’m just not sure he did it anymore.”

  “Let’s go out there and ask him,” Maud said, sliding off the stool in one graceful move. She searched for her pumps with her toes and slid them on. “I’d forgotten how these suckers pinch. Stilettos are proof of the fashion industry’s conspiracy to keep women subordinate to men. I need to write a blog post about that.” She marched toward the door.

  Al and I exchanged a look and hurried after her. We opened the door onto a parking lot devoid of people. Brake lights flared at the turn-in, and a car slid into the street and purred away.

  “You win some, you lose some,” Maud said.

  Chapter 25

  Sunday morning was busy with the brunch I’d organized for a group from our sister city in Bulgaria that the community college had brought to town, but the afternoon was low-key. I lazed around my folks’ house, helping make dinner and discussing books with my mom, who’d managed to read and review six this week, despite her new pub responsibilities. The pub was closed on Sundays, and I think we were all relieved to have a day off. I filled Derek in on my investigative efforts when he returned from playing basketball with some friends. He listened intently while I related Maud’s efforts to trick Foster into a confession, and laughed about the beer spill.

  “Yeah, y
ou can laugh,” I said. “I’ll send you the dry-cleaning bill.”

  “And I’ll pay it, right after I pay my lawyer,” he responded. “So, 2022?” He slung an arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “Seriously, thanks for trying. You’re the only one who is. I sure don’t get the feeling the cops are out there busting their butts to find another suspect.”

  There was nothing to say to that, so I changed the subject. “How are Peri and Zach doing at the pub?” I asked. My shifts hadn’t overlapped with theirs. Peri was the family klutz from way back, so I was curious.

  “Zach’s not much for chatting up the customers, so I’ve got him supervising in the kitchen,” Mom said. “Peri—my little chatterbox—is very popular, and she’s doing a good job behind the bar, although our breakage rate is up slightly. I’ve got you down to work tomorrow evening,” Mom told me, “with Bernie and Kolby.” She forestalled my objections. “Now, I know that boy’s not the hardest worker, but his daddy just died and he deserves our consideration. I told him we’d keep him on for two weeks and reevaluate then.”

  “Great,” I said unenthusiastically.

  • • •

  Work on Monday was interrupted by Derek’s lawyer, Doug Elvaston, and Hart, in that order.

  Courtney called first, wanting to know if I’d had any further thoughts about Derek’s case. I told her about Foster and Anita and our attempt to get a confession or something incriminating out of Foster.

  She took our failure in good part. “They’re still viable suspects,” she said. “Reasonable doubt. That’s my mantra, baby, reasonable doubt.”

  She rang off and Doug swung by. He brought me a coffee, doctored just the way I liked it, and stayed to chat for fifteen minutes. He’d added a couple of clients to his caseload, he was enjoying his new life off the corporate hamster wheel, and Madison had called to apologize for ditching him at the altar.

  “Big of her,” I observed, blowing on my coffee and observing him through my lashes. His tan had faded a bit already, but he still looked more relaxed than I’d seen him in years.

  He grinned at my tone. “Yeah, well. She wants to stay friends, says to give her a call next time I’m in New York.”

  “And will you?” If he said yes, I was done with him. I wasn’t going to watch him let Madison stomp all over his heart with her stiletto heels.

  “Hell no. I’ve learned my lesson. Even though I am pretty good about staying friends with my exes.” He waggled his brows at me.

  “Plural?”

  “Well, no. Just you.”

  The look in his eyes warmed me. Uh-oh. “I’ve got to work,” I said, bending over the file on my desk. “So, shoo.”

  “Maybe we could hang out this weekend?” He lingered in the doorway.

  I looked up. Those green eyes could still melt me. “Uh, I think Hart and I have plans,” I heard myself say, even though we didn’t.

  He shrugged it off and flashed a smile. “Another time.”

  After he left, I continued to stare at the empty doorway. Decision time had come and gone. I hadn’t been ready for it, hadn’t thought about it, but when it came to it, I went with Hart. Spontaneously. Satisfied with myself, I hummed as I worked my way down the list for Troy Widefield’s state senate announcement event.

  “‘Da Doo Ron Ron’?” Hart asked, appearing in the doorway. The way he slouched against the jamb was eerily reminiscent of Doug’s presence there not half an hour ago. “Who even remembers the Crystals?”

  I quit humming. His question was lighthearted, but his expression was more serious. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” I asked, standing. He remained in the doorway, hands shoved into the pocket of his charcoal slacks. I could hear Al talking on the phone in the reception area.

  “Foster Quinlan came in this morning to complain about you ‘stalking’ him,” he said.

  “He did not!” It had never crossed my mind that Foster would go to the police about me. If it had, I would have dismissed the idea, figuring he wouldn’t want to draw any attention to himself.

  “He did.” A lift of Hart’s brows questioned me.

  “Al and I happened to have a drink at the Long Shot last night after an event broke up early,” I said, fiddling with my pen. “Foster was there and recognized me.”

  “Despite your hat and sunglasses,” Hart said drily. “Oh yes.” He correctly interpreted my expression. “He told me you were in disguise.”

  “I didn’t do anything to him,” I said. “Didn’t accost him or follow him home or accuse him of anything.” I paced two steps in each direction, relieved that I hadn’t let Maud talk me into tapping Foster’s phone.

  Hart held up his hands against my heated words. “Calm down. I explained to him that your presence in the bar did not constitute stalking. You need to back off, though. What with interviewing his wife the other day, and the bar last night . . . you need to steer clear of Foster Quinlan. I told you I’ll talk to him, and I will. I got in a few questions while he was complaining about you, and it certainly doesn’t feel as if either he or his wife has rock-solid alibis for last Friday. I’ll follow up.”

  I paused in my pacing and gave him a rueful look. “It was stupid, right?”

  “You love your brother and you’re trying to help him,” he said, with the hint of a smile. “We all do stupid things for love.”

  “Have you?” I asked, sure from the expression on his face that he was remembering something specific.

  “Most definitely,” he said.

  “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

  He shook his head. “Not a chance.”

  “It can’t be that bad,” I coaxed.

  “Not bad, just embarrassing on an Olympic scale.”

  “You have to tell me now!”

  He shook his head, smiling, and pointed his finger at me. “No more sniffing around Foster Quinlan or his wife, okay? I don’t want to have to arrest you.”

  “And I don’t want to be arrested,” I concurred, letting that serve as my agreement to stop pestering Foster.

  “Any chance you’re free one night this week?” he asked, lowering his voice so Al wouldn’t overhear.

  “I’m bartending again tonight,” I said morosely. “Between working at the pub and last night, I’m beginning to feel like I spend more time in bars than at home. Not good, right?”

  “It’s for a good cause,” he said.

  “I know.” I glanced at the schedule on the whiteboard, even though I knew it by heart. “I can do tomorrow or Thursday, and there are no events next Sunday, either.”

  “Dinner on Tuesday.” He smiled in a way that made heat curl in my belly.

  As soon as Hart left, Al scooted into the office. “Are we in trouble for last night?” he asked. “I couldn’t help overhearing part of what the detective said.”

  “Not you, just me,” I said. “And not in very much trouble. That weasel Foster Quinlan told the police I was stalking him.”

  “What a douche. So we’re not going to try again?” He sounded disappointed that his spy career was over before he got to sample his first martini shaken, not stirred.

  Shaking my head loosed a strand of hair and I tucked it back into my French braid. “Nuh-uh. Hart says he’ll follow up, and I believe him.”

  “Just as well,” Al said philosophically. He straightened his bow tie. “I’m falling behind in my accounting class. Would you mind if I left a couple of hours early today? I’ve got a big test tomorrow. The only thing outstanding for tomorrow’s barbecue is to make sure the propane tanks get delivered, and I can take care of that in the morning.”

  “No problem.” I made a note to call Axie, which I hadn’t gotten around to yet. It would be perfect if she could do a few hours in the office each week, spelling me and Al. She wasn’t old enough to do events, but she could answer the phone, schedule meetings, and the like. I
could give her more responsibility if she liked the work and proved reliable. The last thought made me grin: No way would Lola let her not be reliable.

  Chapter 26

  In my usual reliable way, I showed up at Elysium a few minutes before my shift started at five. If this went on for much longer, I was going to get myself an orange shirt with my own name on it; I was tired of being “Sam.” Mom had called to say she and my dad were held up in Grand Junction, where they’d gone to visit the pub’s main food vendor, and they asked me to take charge until they could arrive. Derek, Mom said, was at Courtney’s office, meeting with her and her investigator. I poked my nose into the kitchen, to let the staff know I was there, and returned to the bar, which was devoid of customers on a Monday evening. I was grateful that Derek was short a bartender and not a kitchen worker; I could handle mixing a few drinks and pouring pitchers of beer, but flipping burgers and dunking fries in oil was not a skill I had ever acquired.

  To my great surprise, Kolby was already behind the bar when I emerged from the kitchen, albeit texting rather than working. His blondish hair hung lankly over his collar, but his thumbs flew with more energy than I’d seen him commit to any paying task. I told him to put the device away and bring in a new keg of the Demons IPA. He gave me a disgruntled look, but complied. I disconnected the empty one while waiting for him to return. He reappeared with the keg on a dolly as Bernie came through the door. An adolescent boy trailed her, moving stiffly in a walking cast.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Bernie apologized, shoving her sunglasses into her corkscrewing hair. “And sorry about Billy here. He’s supposed to be with his father, but Jackson got called out on an emergency, so he can’t get him until later. My sitter wasn’t available, so I had to bring him with. My little guy’s at a sleepover with a buddy, but I didn’t have anywhere to leave Billy. I hope it’s okay if he waits here somewhere?” She gave me an anxious look. “He promises to behave, don’t you, Billy?” She nudged the boy.