Shay O'Hanlon Caper 04 - Chip Off the Ice Block Murder

by Jessie Chandler

  Into Coop’s ear I said in a somewhat lower register, “Who told you what was going on? Kate?”

  “No. JT called and said you might need a hand.”

  Oh, but I loved that woman.

  “In fact,” Coop said, “here she is.” He stepped sideways and, holy crap on a cracker, there was my girl in the flesh. A purple scarf wound around her neck and was tucked into the front of her navy blue pea coat. Her cheeks were red from the cold.

  I couldn’t help but grin like an infatuated teenager. “Hey!”

  Coop waved a hand and threaded his way to the front door.

  JT wedged herself up to the bar. Wisps of chestnut hair had escaped her once-neat ponytail and floated around her cheeks. “What’s a girl gotta do for some attention around here?”

  Unmindful of the audience, I cupped her face and gave her a brief moment of some very appreciative attention. Apparently the crowd was too schnockered to care, because there was absolutely no reaction.

  She leaned back with a smile. “Coop heeded my cry for help. I tried to rope Kate and her gal toy in, but they had a better offer.”

  I laughed. “Figures.”

  A tall, alcohol-deprived carouser sitting next to JT started getting feisty. The woman had on a cone-shaped New Year’s hat and periodically blew a kazoo at me. Prior to JT’s arrival, I might have ripped that kazoo out of her mouth and tried to shove it down her throat. Now instead bringing a potential lawsuit on my father, I finished making her drink, grabbed the kazoo from between her lips, and dumped it in her martini. I handed it over with a satisfied smirk.

  She slapped a bill on the bar and, with her kazoo-laden drink in hand, backed cautiously away from the insane bartender.

  I returned my attention to JT, who was watching me with an amused grin. “What can I do?”

  “Make the rounds? Pick up empties, wipe tables?”

  “No problem.” JT pushed back from the bar as she unwound her scarf and shrugged out of her jacket.

  I exchanged her winter wear for a bar rag and tossed it to her. She snagged it out of the air and disappeared into the throng.

  I was elbowed back to reality by a well-placed shot from Lisa. She yelled, “Who was that?”

  “Girlfriend,” I hollered.

  “Not bad.” She grinned and moved on to another customer.

  For the better part of the next two and a half hours, Lisa and I worked nonstop. As the countdown neared, I tried to keep an eye on the time so we could turn up the volume on the two TVs that were mounted above the bar. We were ten minutes from the New Year, and I finally felt like we might make it to the end of the night.

  I handed off the last of the latest round of drink orders to one of the servers whose name had flown in one ear and straight out the other. She was a fresh-faced, college-aged kid with a strawberry-blond French braid who seemed reasonably capable. She shouldered the loaded tray with practiced grace. I wondered what she wanted to be when she grew up.

  “Hey!” A hoarse voice shook me out of my very momentary reverie.

  I turned toward a balding, narrow-faced man with a bulbous red nose who was crammed like a sardine against the bar. From the look of him, he appreciated his alcohol.

  “What can I—” The rest of my query died in my throat when I caught sight of the wallet he was holding out. Instead of showing me his driver’s license, the wallet contained a police shield. In the blink of an eye, multiple thoughts raced through my head, a dead father leading the chase. My jaw snapped shut.

  He squinted at me, looking remarkably like Popeye the Sailor Man.

  I waited, inanely wondering if he was going to speak out of the side of his mouth and ask me for some spinach. When the words came, they weren’t about spinach. “Peter O’Hanlon here?”

  Okay. If my father was dead, would they be asking for him? I had no idea. I quickly scanned the crowd for JT, without success.

  I said, “No, he’s not.”

  Popeye shifted his eyes from one end of the bar to the other as if he thought I might be hiding my dad in plain sight. His gaze pinned me again. “Know where I can find him?”

  I leaned close. “If I could find him right now, I’d probably kill him. What’s going on?”

  His breath was hot on my cheek and smelled like a combination of cigarettes and wintergreen. I wondered if he used mints like my dad did to hide the evidence of his lapses.

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “Don’t know what to tell you. I haven’t seen my father today.”

  “Your father?”

  “Yeah, Pete O’Hanlon’s my dad. Did you pick him up again?”

  Popeye gave me a sharp look. “No. Should we?”

  Well, hell. I was too busy to play twenty questions with the law. The clock on the wall read 11:56. If he wasn’t here to break the news to me that I had a dead daddy, I didn’t have time to deal with him. “Look,” I said, “I don’t know where he is. If you find him, please tell him to get his ass back here.” I was about to move on when the man stopped me with a hand on my wrist.

  Irritated, I swung back to face him. “What?”

  Popeye pulled me toward him and again put his lips next to my cheek. “Your father own a gun?”

  A gun? What kind of question was that? My dad used to keep an old revolver under the bar for emergencies, but as far as I knew, he’d never pulled it out. Whether it was still there I had no idea. “He used to,” I answered warily. “Why?”

  Popeye flipped his business card at me, like a surly TV detective. “You call me if he comes back, okay?”

  I picked up the card. Emblazoned across the top was Sgt. Robert DeSilvero followed on the next line by Saint Paul Police Department, with Homicide Division printed below that.

  Holy cow. Homicide Division? My head snapped up to meet Sergeant DeSilvero’s eyes.

  “Call me.” He backed up and faded into the masses.

  Any further thought I had on what transpired were lost when the floor literally started vibrating from the stomping of feet and thunder of voices shouting down the seconds to the new year.

  It didn’t look like 2012 was going to be getting off to a very good start.

  It was past three in the morning when JT and I hit the sack. Exhaustion made my body feel heavy and lethargic. JT clicked off the bedside lamp, and the mattress sank down as she crawled in and rolled to face me. She propped herself on her elbow, silhouetted against the window behind her.

  “Okay. You’ve been weird all night. What’s going on?”

  My emotions were a jumble. Throughout the last twelve hours, too many thoughts and feelings I couldn’t deal with had been whirling through my brain. At some point I’d shunted my misgivings deep into my mental dungeon, a place that was reserved for stowing away the crap I didn’t want to deal with. I had long ago honed the ability to block out everything but the most immediate issues and deal with whatever situation was most dire, but a part of me knew I couldn’t compartmentalize like that forever.

  At the Leprechaun tonight, we’d been so busy that I hadn’t had a chance to tell JT about the visit from Sgt. Robert DeSilvero of the SPPD. Or about the letter that was burning a hole in the pocket of my pants. So I cranked up the moat gate and let out some of my confusion and fear. As I talked, JT’s hand settled gently on my ribs, warming the skin through my T-shirt. Her touch often kept me grounded, and it did again now as I haltingly explained things.

  “So,” I said, “I have no idea what the cop wanted aside from the gun thing, which I don’t get, and I still have no idea where my goddamn father is.” I blew out an irritated breath, concentrated on JT’s thumb as it traced abstract patterns on my side. “Oh, yeah, and there’s the little matter of a letter I found on Dad’s desk. A note of intent regarding the sale of the Leprechaun.”

  JT’s hand stilled its calming movements. “Sale of the bar?”r />
  “Yeah. I had no clue. He never mentioned that he was thinking about selling. I think that’d be something he’d tell me.” I dropped my voice a few octaves, mimicking my dad. “Oh, by the way, Shay, I’m selling the bar and moving to the Keys where I can live in the mangroves and fish to my heart’s content.” JT gave a small chuckle.

  I pushed my head into the pillow. “You know, earlier this fall, or maybe it was sometime in the summer, I remember Dad mentioning that someone had stopped by—a developer of some kind, I think—and asked if he ever thought about getting out of the business. Dad told the guy to take a hike. Although I suppose he probably used a bit more colorful language that that.” I allowed a small smile. “I know he loves the place. I can’t see him selling out to anyone.”

  For a couple of moments we were both quiet. With a yawn, I added, “I wonder if he’s been having money trouble. There were a few past-due bills on his desk.”

  It was too dark to make out JT’s features, but I could feel her eyes on me. I reached over and slid my hand lightly across her cheek and tangled my fingers in her hair. She was the rock in my oftentimes one-step-away-from-crazy life.

  She leaned into my touch, turned her head, and kissed my palm. “I don’t know what to say about this sale thing, but I can do a little poking and see if I can find out what St. Paul is sniffing around for.”

  I yawned again, my eyes watering as I started to unwind enough to feel sleepy. “I’d appreciate it.”

  There were still so many unanswered questions. Why was Lisa Vecoli looking for my father, for one? Where on earth was he, anyway? Another thought slithered into my consciousness and I stiffened. “Oh, crap.”

  JT’s hand tightened. “What?”

  “The B&B we had for tomorrow in Duluth. I’m so sorry. I don’t think I can go right now.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll call in the morning. Who knows, maybe your dad is back home sleeping off one hell of a New Year’s Eve.”

  “We can hope.”

  JT settled onto her side close to me, her arm resting across my abdomen. “Shut the mind down and sleep, babe.”

  I obediently closed my eyes. My last coherent thought was how lucky I was to have found the kind of love JT offered. It was a once in a lifetime thing, and I knew it.

  two

  Sunday morning arrived bright and early. After a fast breakfast with JT, I called Kate to tell her I’d be on the way to recover the canines. She answered after four rings, mumbled, “’Kay,” into the phone, and hung up on me. She must have had a doozy of a night.

  JT took off for the station at half past nine, intending to see if she could find out why St. Paul PD was nosing around Minneapolis territory. I added a mental note to check around when I got to the bar and see if I could find the gun Sergeant DeSilvero was so hot for.

  Initially, I’d briefly thought about closing the Lep for the day if my father hadn’t miraculously reappeared to open up himself. However, the sad state of my dad’s financial affairs, guilt at the thought of abandoning him in his time of need, and worry that something really bad might have happened dictated that I be a good daughter and bring home his bacon.

  It took Kate three minutes of my pounding on her door and barking dogs to get her ass out of bed and let me in. She muttered something incoherent, made a U-turn, beelined down the hall into her bathroom, and slammed the door. In the brief glimpse I’d had, the poor thing looked like she woken on the bottom side of hell—one of her eyebrows had looked singed—and her face was whiter than the dingy snow outside. Whatever party she’d attended must have been a doozy.

  From Kate’s place the dogs and I headed toward Uptown and Pam’s Pawhouse. A longtime Rabbit Hole customer named Pam Pine owned the place, which was a doggy daycare and pet boarding business. With her genuine smile, huggy arms, and bottomless pockets of treats, both the mutts adored Pam. JT and I did too, not only because she’d come to love our pooches almost more than we did, but because she was a flat-out huge-hearted human. She trained Dawg and Bogey on Canine Good Citizenship—an American Kennel Club program—teaching both JT and me the ins and outs right along with the dogs. Her patience was infinite, which was a godsend because none of the four of us were stellar students.

  Dawg and Bogey were scheduled for their own special vacation with Pam and her canine-loving staff. This morning, JT and I discussed the situation and decided there was no reason for our mutts not to enjoy their vacation, even if our getaway was in question. As they say, it’s a dog’s life.

  I pulled in and parked in front of the Pawhouse, a squat brick building painted orange and green. Dawg sat up straight and pressed his nose to the passenger window, fogging it with his hot, rather fishy breakfast breath. Bogey lifted his head and woofed once from the back where he’d stretched out, his bulk taking up the entire bench seat. Unless he knew for sure there was something worth getting up for, he wasn’t going to bother.

  I uttered the magic words. “Hey guys, we’re gonna go see Pam! Where’s Pam, huh? Where’s Pam?”

  Bogey huffed and lumbered to his feet. Dawg’s butt wiggled so hard I could feel the car shake. I grabbed the bag I’d packed with dog food and a couple of their favorite blankets and followed the mad charge to the front door.

  A reception desk sat near the entrance of a large, light-chartreuse-painted room that was bisected by a white plastic picket fence three feet high. Behind the fence seven dogs of varying ages and sizes happily bounced around, chewing on and chasing each other. A collapsible yellow tunnel took up one corner, a wall of crates waited for naptime, and various toys were scattered across the floor. This was one place where the four-legged undisputedly ruled.

  A long hall down the back held posh boarding suites, a well-equipped groomer’s room, and offices. Out back was a fenced-in yard the size of a basketball court that provided hours of pooch playing pleasure.

  As I was dragged through the glass doors, Pam emerged from the back. Her eyes lit up when she saw Bogey and Dawg.

  “My boys are here! Happy New Year!” A gigantic, delighted smile spread across her face as she dropped to her knees. I released the leashes and watched the dogs deliriously scramble into her arms, tongues washing her face, slobber flying. The drool didn’t faze her in the least, and after some very soggy puppy love, she glanced up. “Good to see you too.” Pam’s smile faded. “You look wiped. What’s wrong?” Each of her arms was full of dog, and she kept her hands on their heads as she straightened and looked warily at me.

  “Long story. My dad’s at it again.”

  “Oh, oh. Lay it on me.”

  I did, and when I finished, she shook her head. “Shay, I’m so sorry.”

  I gave her a wan smile. “We decided there was no reason to deprive Bogey and Dawg of their fun. Besides, maybe he’ll be at the bar with some ridiculous excuse for his absence. We can only hope, right?”

  “Absolutely.” She looked down at the two sets of adoring eyes glued to her every move. “Let’s get these two situated and you go see if you can reclaim your vacation.” She held out a hand and I most appreciatively gave her the mutts’ bag. She said, “We’re good here. Go forth and find your father.”

  I saluted her and made my exit.

  Snow flurries periodically spewed from the heavens as I pulled into the Leprechaun parking lot. I exited the Escape, hit lock on the fob, was rewarded with a grating beep, and trudged to the rear entrance of the bar.

  At the door I stopped and took a good look at the old building. At one time I’d helped my father paint the structure white with Kelly-green trim. It sure didn’t feel like it had been that long ago, but the condition of the peeling paint told the real story. Had it been five, maybe ten years ago? Time went by so fast, and it only accelerated the older I got.

  Was Dad actually considering selling out? Was he somewhere out there, dead from hypothermia and an overload of hooch?

 
Maybe he was home. I liked that idea a whole lot better.

  I headed up the stairs and rapped my knuckles on the door. Waited a few seconds and knocked again.

  No answer, but I’d expected that. I let myself in and did a fast scope of the apartment, which was as devoid of life as it had been the night before.

  I pulled the front door shut and locked it. Cold air stung my cheeks and the covered stairway shuddered under my weight as I descended two at a time. I needed to focus on one problem at a time or my head was going to explode. Forward, Shay, don’t look back. The first order of business was to get the bar up and running by noon.

  I keyed the lock, and the kitchen door skittered open with a reluctant squawk. I stepped inside and experimentally swung the door back and forth a few times. It screeched with every movement. Huh. My dad was usually anal about upkeep. Normally he would have attended to such an easily fixable issue—a couple of squirts of WD-40 should take care of it.

  I thought about that.

  The rundown façade of the bar, the sticking door, and the ungodly stench that assaulted my nasal passages as I stepped inside made no sense. Had I been so caught up in my own life that I’d neglected to see telltale signs my father was slipping? Was I somehow responsible for this because I hadn’t been paying attention?

  I forced myself to focus on the here and now and forget the rest. First things first: I had to refrain from throwing up all over the tile floor. The malodorous fumes that choked me as soon as I stepped inside had to be coming from the drainpipe under the sink. My eyes watered and I clapped a hand over my nose. I headed into the bar itself, where the smell faded, and wandered around turning on lights, TVs, and ceiling fans. What had the delivery guy said last night? Something about the aromatic cellar. Maybe the source of the problem was coming from there.