Murder on the Rocks

by Allyson K. Abbott

  “What makes you think Gary did it?”

  “Nothing direct, but it turns out he has a prison record that he didn’t tell me about, and his cellmate was Ginny Rifkin’s biological son!”

  “Ginny has a son?”

  “Had. He was killed a few months ago.”

  “Wow,” Riley said, looking thoughtful. “I can see why you’re spooked. But I’m sure the cops will find Gary before too long.”

  “I wish I was sure,” I said, settling onto the stool beside him. “To be honest, I think the cops are looking as closely at me as they are Gary. I can’t provide any sort of alibi for when Ginny was killed and the cops know I had some animosity toward her and felt like she was stealing my father away from me. And not only did they find her body right behind my bar, now they’ve found the knife that killed her. It’s from my set, the one in the bar kitchen. It has my prints on it. I’m getting scared, Riley. I think I might get arrested.”

  “Mack, don’t get all worked up over this,” he said, patting my hand. “Any evidence the cops may have found has to be circumstantial, right? Because you didn’t do this.”

  “Yeah, but we both know that innocent people get convicted all the time, many of them on far less evidence than they have on me right now.”

  “I know you didn’t do this and I’ll do everything in my power to make sure everyone else knows it, too. I’ve got your back, Mack, no matter what happens. I promised your father I’d look out for you if anything ever happened to him, and I intend to keep that promise. If I have to bail you out of jail, I will. If I have to hire a fancy private investigator to prove your innocence, I will. And if I need to find you a good defense lawyer, I’ll do that, too.”

  At that point, Joe Signoriello walked up behind Riley, slapped him on the back, and said, “Hey, Quinn, want to join our little detecting group? Seems most of us are on the suspect list so we’re working to gather what clues and ideas we can, to see if we can solve this before the cops do. Want to play along?”

  “Sure,” Riley said with a smile. “What have you figured out so far?”

  I left to go and help Helmut prepare Riley’s food. By the time I finished, Riley had joined the growing group at the end of the bar, where he was knee-deep in speculations and conspiracy theories.

  The entire bar had turned into a mini CSI show, littered with cocktail napkins that bore lists of motives, weapons, potential evidence, and drawings of the alley out back, which most people assumed was the murder scene. I knew that wasn’t the case since Duncan had told me otherwise, but I kept that knowledge to myself. It wasn’t easy, however. Since the body dump site was still cordoned off and guarded by police, I was presumed by those who didn’t know Duncan’s true identity to be the only person present who had any knowledge of the scene where Ginny’s body was found. As a result I kept fielding questions I wasn’t sure I should be answering, and I suppose what happened next was inevitable.

  “Hey, Mack,” Cora said at one point. “We heard that Ginny was stabbed to death. Do you think she was killed somewhere else and dumped in the alley? Because I heard there wasn’t much blood at the scene.”

  “Where did you hear that?” I asked, hoping to dodge an actual answer.

  Though Duncan was at the other end of the bar at the time, I saw him shift his attention our way with Cora’s question. The guy had creepy, Spidey-sense hearing and he quickly moved down to my end of the bar just in time to see Cora wink and say, “I have connections.” There was a pause and an odd lull in the conversations going on around us as Duncan and Cora locked gazes. Finally Cora smiled and turned her attention back to me. “So was there a lot of blood or not?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I told her with an apologetic shrug. “The body was hidden beneath some cardboard so I only saw a small portion of it.”

  “You didn’t lift it up to take a peek?” asked Frank Signoriello, sounding skeptical. “How did you even know she was dead?”

  At this point, Duncan turned to look at me. He raised his eyebrows, looking faintly amused, and said, “Yeah, how did you know she was dead?”

  “Well . . . I . . . um . . . I just knew. The part of the body I could see looked so lifeless.”

  “How much of it did you actually see?” Tad asked.

  Duncan leaned against the back bar area and folded his arms, seeming to enjoy my discomfort and waiting to see how I was going to answer.

  “The only thing I saw clearly was one of her arms,” I told them.

  “All you saw was an arm and you didn’t lift the cardboard?” Frank said, his tone rife with skepticism. “Come on, Mack. You’re holding out on us.”

  “Yeah, I think Frank’s right,” Kevin chimed in. “You had to have looked beneath the cardboard.”

  “I did lift it a little,” I admitted. “But I really couldn’t see things all that clearly.”

  “Why not?” Kevin asked. By now everyone at the bar was cued in to our conversation—as were several of the nearby tables—and everyone leaned forward eagerly, awaiting my reply.

  “Yeah, why not?” Cora echoed. “It was broad daylight and the alley gets a reasonable amount of sunlight even early in the morning.”

  I chewed my lip, unsure how to answer. I struggled to think of something I could say that would satisfy them and help the conversation move forward, but nothing came to mind. Nothing, that is, except the truth. With a sigh I figured what the hell, and decided to out myself.

  “I couldn’t see clearly because I have a condition that sometimes interferes with my ability to experience things. It gets worse when I’m stressed, which I obviously was.” I paused, waiting for the inevitable questions I knew were coming.

  “What kind of condition?” Frank asked. “Like a cataract or something?”

  “No, it’s a neurological disorder that interferes with my senses, all of them, not just my vision. My senses are cross-wired. I may hear smells, or see sounds, or taste certain tactile sensations, stuff like that.”

  “Wow,” Cora said. “So is it kind of like those media players on computers that have visual imagery that changes with the tone and tempo of the music?”

  “Something like that,” I said, “but much more involved.”

  “Interesting,” Tad said, looking intrigued. “So if I clap my hands really loud like this”—he then did so loudly enough that half of us jumped and everyone in the bar turned to look—“that makes you see or smell something?”

  “Actually, it made me taste something,” I said. I licked my lips. “It triggered a burst of sour flavor in my mouth, kind of like biting into a lemon.”

  “That’s whacked,” Kevin said.

  “Apparently you’re not the only one who thinks so,” I told him. “When I was younger, there was a time when the doctors thought I might be schizophrenic, or worse. I almost ended up in an institution because of it.”

  This tidbit of information had an interesting effect on several people. Cora looked sympathetic. Kevin leaned back in his seat, as if to distance himself from my craziness. Tad looked even more intrigued. And the Signoriello brothers exchanged a look that suggested I might not be the sane, innocent person they once thought me to be.

  “It’s called synesthesia,” I told them. “It comes in various forms and lots of people have some variation of it, though mine seems to be a unique type, probably because it was brought on by trauma, or a lack of oxygen, or some other problem that occurred before I was born when my mother was in a coma. It’s not a big deal. In fact, there are some relatively famous people who are known to be synesthetes. A lot of musicians have it, people like Billy Joel, Tori Amos, Duke Ellington, and Itzhak Perlman. It has something to do with the way music appears to them, with different sounds and tones having certain colors, shapes, or textures.”

  There were a few seconds of silence while my audience digested this information, then three people tossed out questions all at once.

  “So you couldn’t see Ginny’s body when you found it because you were see
ing other things?” Tad asked.

  “Your mother was in a coma?” Kevin said.

  “What did you see instead of Ginny’s body?” Cora asked.

  I held up my hands in a halt gesture and shook my head. “Enough for now. I need to start getting ready for the dinner crowd.” I turned and headed for the kitchen, leaving the group behind. Though I half expected Duncan to follow me, he didn’t. He hung back and listened to the conversations that followed. I couldn’t hear any of what was being said, but I’d been in this position often enough over the years to have a pretty good idea. Cora and the Signoriellos, all of whom knew about my history with my mother, would fill in Kevin and anyone else who was in the dark about that part of my past. Then they would all start speculating on how severe my little condition really was. Included in that discussion would be some questions and suggestions about what I might have experienced when I found Ginny’s body, and then someone in the group would mention some quirk I have and in a eureka moment would attribute it and perhaps some other behaviors to my condition. At some point someone would make a joke about it. I had my money on Cora for this, because I knew the woman had a humorous but skewed way of looking at things, though Kevin was a close second.

  The discussion would eventually shift back to the murder, but I knew the effects of my revelation would linger for days to come. No doubt word would spread among the customers and staff, though a couple of my employees already knew about it. Over the next few days I would catch people looking at me strangely as they wondered just how brain damaged I really was and what sorts of experiences I might be having whenever I was talking or listening to them. Eventually most people would simply shrug it off as an odd quirk and some would even forget I had it. All of this I knew because I’d experienced it before. It was why I kept my condition to myself most of the time. What I didn’t know was whether or not anyone would start to wonder if there was any connection between the experiences I had with Ginny’s body and the experiences I had with them. Might I become a target of the killer because of it, assuming I wasn’t one already?

  Chapter 18

  The thought of being a target for whoever killed Ginny made me shiver and I shoved the idea out of my mind, focusing instead on helping Helmut with the food prep for the dinner rush. I started chopping up more fresh veggies but my thoughts during this mindless task eventually wandered back to Ginny and her murder. I thought about Cora’s question and realized that as far as I knew, the actual murder scene had yet to be found. So why had Ginny’s body been left where it was? Surely it had to have been a risk for someone to move it. Had dumping her body behind my bar been intended as a message to me? Or was it simple coincidence?

  Like Duncan, I had a hard time believing it was coincidence, mainly because of my personal connection to the woman and the fact that my father was murdered in that same alley ten months ago.

  Helmut, being his usual taciturn self, eyed me curiously a few times but said nothing. His watchfulness made me edgy so a few minutes before five I said, “Why don’t you call it a day, Helmut. Go home to your wife. I got this.���

  He tossed a handful of cheese atop a pizza and said, “Are you sure? I know you are short with Gary gone. Inga doesn’t like me working at all, much less extra, but I can ask her if I can work later tonight if you want.”

  I smiled at him. “Thanks, Helmut, but that won’t be necessary. Pete said he could work over tonight and he wants the money. We’ll be fine. Honest. Go home.”

  He shrugged and made a dismissive face. “Whatever,” he said, shoving the pizza into the oven. He set the timer, took off his apron, and went to the sink to wash his hands. When he was done he walked over to me and said, “Anything you need, you call, okay?”

  “Thanks, Helmut. I will.”

  He looked like he was about to say something else, but in the end he just sighed, turned away, and walked out of the kitchen.

  Debra poked her head in a moment later with several orders for fries and one for a BLT. I had dropped the fries into the oil and was working on the sandwich when Duncan came into the kitchen looking concerned.

  “You’ve abandoned your post?” I said. “Who’s watching the bar?”

  “Pete’s back there for now,” he said. “I told him I needed to take a short break so I could talk to you.”

  “Well, here I am, so talk.”

  “We tracked down that insurance agent the Signoriello brothers mentioned and he confirmed putting together a life insurance policy for Ginny.”

  “I’m guessing Mike Levy was the beneficiary,” I said, finishing off the sandwich and placing it on a plate.

  “He was initially,” Duncan said. “But Ginny named someone else after Levy was killed.”

  The fryer dinged and I walked over and took the basket out, letting it hang to drain. I turned back to look at Duncan, curious. “So who inherits her money now?” I asked, wondering if the answer might provide a clue to who her killer was. “Is it someone we know?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Well, tell me, for heaven’s sake. Don’t keep me in suspense.” I grabbed the basket of fries and walked over to dump them into their paper-lined baskets. “Who gets Ginny’s money?” I repeated as I started to shake the fries loose.

  Duncan’s answer made me drop fries all over the counter and the floor.

  “Interestingly enough,” he said, “you do.”

  I stood there gaping at Duncan until the hot burn of a waffle fry that had landed on top of my foot made itself known. Shaking the fry off, I set the basket down and said, “Is this some kind of joke?”

  Duncan shook his head, looking sad. “No, it’s not a joke. I got a call from Jimmy just a bit ago and he sent me a photo of the actual document.” He took out his cell phone, fingered the screen for a few seconds, and then held it out for me to see.

  I squinted at the picture. There it was, in black and white, the page of an insurance policy with my name typed in the line for beneficiary. I stared at it for a long time and then looked up at Duncan. “That doesn’t make any sense at all,” I said. “Why would Ginny leave any money to me?”

  “As far as we can tell, she didn’t have any other family besides the son she gave up for adoption. With both him and your father gone, I’m guessing she figured you were the closest thing to family she had left.”

  His news rocked me to my core. All the mean, jealous thoughts I’d had about Ginny when she came into my dad’s life now seemed so wrong, so uncharitable, so petty, and selfish. I felt horrible and ashamed for the way I’d treated her, the animosity I’d shown her, especially after my father died. For one insane instant, I felt angry that she had left me this money, thinking surely she had done it as a spiteful, I’ll-show-you sort of thing, but that was gone in a flash, replaced by remorse and sadness.

  “I can’t believe she did something like that,” I mumbled. Then it hit me and I turned to look at Duncan. “Oh,” I said. “Now I understand why you’re looking at me that way.”

  Duncan didn’t say a word. He just stood there, waiting and staring at me.

  “How much money are we talking?”

  “The life insurance policy is for two-hundred and fifty thousand. If there’s a will somewhere and you’re the beneficiary of that, too, it could be much more.”

  For a few delirious seconds I let myself imagine what it would be like to have that sort of money. It would mean no more living day to day, wondering if I’d have enough to pay the mortgage, the utilities, my employees, my beer vendors. It would mean I could do some long overdue improvements to the bar. It would mean I could afford to hire someone to take my place, giving me more time off during the week to have some semblance of a life.

  But those pie-in-the-sky ideas disappeared like popped balloons when the real implications of Ginny’s generosity registered. I gave Duncan a wan smile. “So now you not only have me in possession of the murder weapon, which has my prints on it, and the body behind my home and place of business, and a history o
f jealousy and animosity between me and the victim, you now also have a stellar motive for me.”

  “So it would seem.” He was still staring at me with that weird expression, which I now determined to be a mix of suspicion and disappointment. It made me want to cry.

  “Do you think I did this?”

  It was a long time before he answered. “I honestly don’t know what I think. There is definitely evidence pointing to you. A lot of it is circumstantial, but it’s still strong evidence. You have the magic triad: means, motive, and opportunity.”

  His words frightened me and I stepped back away from him, swallowing hard.

  “But so do several other people,” he went on, “and that means reasonable doubt. Based on the blood evidence where the body was found, Ginny was killed elsewhere and dumped in the alley. The fact that we didn’t find any blood evidence in your apartment or the bar makes it unlikely she was killed here, nor could we find a site out in the alley. Ginny wasn’t a huge woman, but she wasn’t tiny either. I’ve seen you haul around those crates of beer like they weighed nothing so I know you’re strong, but I have doubts about whether you’re strong enough to have hauled Ginny’s body into the alley . . . or stupid enough for that matter. If you did kill her, you would have dumped the body as far from here as possible.

  “Plus there’s the issue of your father. I don’t believe you had anything to do with his death, and I can’t shake the feeling that his murder and Ginny’s are somehow connected. It’s simply too coincidental and I’m not a big believer in coincidence.”

  “So you’re not going to arrest me now?” I asked him, bracing myself for the answer.

  He cocked his head to one side and gave me a tired, half-smile. “No, I’m not going to arrest you now. The evidence isn’t convincing enough. But I can’t promise you someone else won’t.”