Murder on the Rocks

by Allyson K. Abbott

  I let out a mirthless laugh. “Unfortunately, water would prove to be his eventual downfall because the heavy rainfall that came with the storm so drenched the earth that water backed up from the exposed earthen bottom of the crater in the secret room, eventually filling it, flooding out of it into the room, and seeping beneath the wall into my basement. That water is what led me to the discovery.”

  Tad shook his head and made a sad face. “Thank goodness you did. Who knows what would have happened if Riley hadn’t been found out?”

  “He almost got away with it,” I said. Then I turned to Duncan as a thought hit me. “One thing I still don’t know is what happened to Ginny’s car.”

  “Ah, that was a clever bit of work by our Mr. Quinn,” Duncan said, making me taste sweet chocolate—a reaction I was keeping to myself. “A month or so ago he overheard one of his employees, a high school student named Doug who worked on the weekends, telling one of the other kids about the money this friend of his was making stealing cars for a car chopper. The friend kept trying to recruit Doug with promises of easy money so Doug said he did it once by stealing his neighbor’s car, but he was so afraid of getting caught, he never did it again.

  “The employee Doug told this to was skeptical, but Doug offered enough details to make his story believable. Among those details were the name of the used car dealer on the edge of town he went to, how he had to drive to the back of the lot between the hours of two A.M. and six A.M. where the service garage was, and how he had to push the doorbell outside a regular door in that garage in an SOS pattern: three short pushes, three long ones, and three more short ones. Some guy came out and told Doug to wait where he was while the guy took the neighbor’s car and drove it around back where, judging from the noises Doug heard, he pulled it into the garage. Then the guy came out again, directed Doug to a car parked nearby, and after giving Doug three hundred bucks, drove him to within a block of his home and dropped him off. The guy’s final words to Doug were about what he would do to him if he ever told anyone.”

  “And yet he told one of his coworkers?” Tad said, shaking his head.

  “Male teenage ego and bravado,” Duncan said. “It makes all of us stupid to some degree at that age. Apparently Doug was trying to outdo a story the other kid had told so he offered up the car theft, making the other kid swear to secrecy. I imagine Doug was a little relieved when the other kid didn’t believe him.”

  “Did you arrest this kid, Doug?” I asked.

  Duncan shrugged. “Sort of. Doug apologized to the neighbors and promised to do some charity work as probation, so they weren’t interested in pushing the issue. The DA offered him a deal if he’d testify but he was too scared to take it. The cops were able to bust the ring with an undercover sting and get enough evidence on their own, so the DA is making Doug do time in juvey at Doug’s request. He wants it to appear as if he was busted along with everyone else so they won’t think he squealed. And his parents were fine with him doing the time. Said they hoped it would teach him a lesson.”

  “Are you going to tell us that Ginny’s car was chopped up by this group?” Tad said, wincing. “Because that truly would be a crime. That little convertible of hers was a sweet car.”

  Duncan shook his head. “We don’t know what happened to it, though we do know the ring got it. Remembering Doug’s story, Riley took Ginny’s keys and drove her Mercedes out to the used car dealership Doug had mentioned. His experience was exactly as Doug had said with one exception: Riley refused to take any money, saying all he wanted in return was silence, a ride to downtown, and a quick disposal of the car. He had the car chopper guy drop him off several blocks from the store just to be safe and then he walked back. I suspect they might have tried to sell that car as it was rather than chop it up. A lot of their stuff got shipped overseas, and we couldn’t find any traces of Ginny’s car.”

  I found it hard to believe that a man who I thought was so kind and caring could be twisted into something so evil over the faint promise of a treasure. But I learned that Riley’s money situation had been as dire as mine, maybe more so. Without Ginny’s help he never would have been able to buy my bar. The combination of his monthly alimony and child support payments, and the decline of sales in his store now that paper books were going the way of the dodo, had left him broke and desperate. Capone’s hidden gold had been his only hope.

  Only there was no gold. There was a hidden treasure, however, though it wasn’t in the secret room. I finally got around to emptying that storage room in the basement, the one that had been accumulating stuff for years. And behind one wall of shelves I found a hidden compartment. In that compartment were several cases of liquor dating back to Capone’s time. I decided to keep a half dozen of them for myself, but the rest have been auctioned off to collectors who paid a tidy sum to own a small piece of Capone history. The secret room and the tunnel were merely used to hide people or help them escape back in Capone’s day, people like illegal bootleggers who were trying to hide from the law.

  “So what’s next, Mack?” Frank asked. “The money Ginny left you takes a lot of pressure off, I imagine.”

  “That it does,” I said. “Between what I got from the liquor bottles and Ginny’s life insurance policy, I no longer have to worry about money on a day-to-day basis. And you folks are the first I’m going to tell about my future plans. I’m buying Riley’s store and I’m going to expand the bar into that space.”

  My announcement was met with a cacophony of congratulations from the group. I was pretty excited about the new plans but also nervous. Buying Riley’s space would give me full control of the secret room and tunnel that connected the two and it turned out to be something of an attraction. Ever since the story of what happened hit the news, the bar had been flooded with customers who wanted a glimpse of what was now being called the Capone room. We let folks go down there and see it, doing mini tours several times a day and keeping it locked otherwise. Once my purchase of Riley’s place was finalized, I planned to explore the idea of creating a special private dining room in the secret Capone room, one that could be rented out for a fee.

  All the expanding would mean hiring additional staff, something that made me a little nervous, in part because I planned to hire enough staff to allow myself more time off. It was a decision I knew would’ve made Zach happy, except that I had recently put our relationship on hold because I felt I needed to figure out what was going on with Duncan first.

  So far most of what was going on with Duncan was free labor. Today was a classic example. It was his day off and instead of relaxing or doing something fun outside to enjoy the beautiful weather, he was working behind my bar, entertaining customers with his drink mixing skills and friendly banter. Given that he’s good at it, willing to do it for free, and I like having him around, I can’t see any reason to tell him no.

  Our relationship hasn’t yet moved beyond friendship, I think because there was the small matter of clearing me as a suspect in Ginny’s murder, which has taken weeks. During that time, Duncan has been eager to help me sort out all my synesthetic clues and cues, and lately he’s been testing me the way my father used to, only he uses objects from crimes, or in one case, a crime scene for me to analyze.

  My group of regulars—Cora, Tad, Kevin, Lewis, Joe, and Frank—and the cops who often join them have been intrigued by this process. Cora has dubbed us the Capone Club in honor of the stash in the basement, and declared us amateur sleuths and crime-solvers. Word has spread and yesterday a writer was here to interview Cora and the others with the intent of doing a write-up in the local newspaper about the club and the crime that led to its formation. While I told the group I didn’t mind them advertising what they were doing, figuring it might attract customers, I did dole out one caveat. My “little talent,” as Duncan calls it, was not to be mentioned. It’s the Capone Club’s secret weapon and I want it to remain a secret, though I’m not sure how long that will be possible. Duncan keeps saying he wants to use me to help him s
olve crimes and so far I’ve gone along with it. But I’m wary of what might happen if I expose my little quirk to others.

  For now I’m content to ride this wave of change, expanding my little neighborhood bar, and helping my Capone Club do their thing by periodically serving up a little murder on the rocks.

  Drink Recipes

  THE MACKTINI

  1 oz. espresso, chilled

  1½ oz. Kahlua

  1½ oz. vodka

  1 oz. white crème de cacao

  ½ oz. heavy cream (half and half or milk can be used

  for a lower fat option)

  Pour ingredients over ice in a shaker, cover and shake, then strain into a chilled martini glass.

  To make a Mock Macktini, use 2 oz. espresso, 1 oz. chocolate syrup, a squirt of vanilla syrup, and ½ oz. heavy cream, half and half, or milk.

  THE CRAZY REDHEAD

  1 shot Jägermeister

  1 shot peach schnapps

  Cranberry juice

  Pour over ice in a shaker and then fill shaker the rest of the way with cranberry juice. Shake vigorously and then pour into a glass.

  For a non-alcoholic version, you can mix 2 oz. peach nectar with 6 oz. cranberry juice, and top it off with club soda.

  MILWAUKEE RIVER ICED TEA

  1 oz. vodka

  1 oz. gin

  1 oz. tequila

  1 oz. white rum

  1 oz. Triple Sec

  1 oz. lemon juice

  Beer

  Combine all ingredients except beer in a shaker half full of ice and shake for about thirty seconds. Pour into a glass and top off with a beer of your choice.

  For a mocktail version, combine 4 oz. strong black tea with 6 oz. apple cider and 1 oz. of fresh lemon juice. Pour over ice and top off with ginger ale and a maraschino cherry.

  APPLETINI

  1½ oz. vodka

  1 oz. sour apple schnapps

  1 oz. apple juice

  Fill a cocktail shaker halfway with ice and add the ingredients. Shake well and then strain into a martini glass. Garnish with an apple slice.

  A non-alcoholic version of the Appletini is best made with fresh Granny Smith apple juice, shaken with an equal amount of bottled apple juice. If you don’t have fresh Granny Smith juice, you can just add a dash of lime juice and a bit of green food coloring by dipping the tip of a toothpick in the bottle and then stirring it into the juice.

  SUMMER LIGHTNING LEMONADE

  ½ oz. berry vodka (e.g., raspberry, blueberry, blackberry)

  ½ oz. gin

  ½ oz. white rum

  ½ oz. Triple Sec

  ½ oz. tequila

  2 Tbsp. lemon juice concentrate

  Lemon-lime soda

  Fill a cocktail shaker halfway with ice. Add all ingredients but the soda and shake for thirty seconds. Pour into a large glass and top off with lemon-lime soda.

  To make a non-alcoholic Summer Lightning Lemonade, shake together equal parts of a berry juice of your choosing (or crushed berries if in season) and frozen lemonade concentrate. Pour into a glass and top off with lemon-lime soda.

  ITALIAN DELIGHT

  1 oz. Amaretto

  ½ oz. orange juice

  1½ oz. cream or half and half

  Pour ingredients over ice in a shaker, shake, and strain into a chilled glass. Garnish with a cherry.

  You can substitute ¼ teaspoon almond extract for the Amaretto to make a delicious alcohol-free alternative.

  IRISH COFFEE

  Add 2 oz. of Irish whiskey to a mug of coffee and top it off with whipped cream. Drizzle some green crème de menthe over the whipped cream.

  You can substitute an Irish cream-flavored creamer to give your coffee an Irish kick without the whiskey.

  THE BOOTLEGGER

  ¾ oz. bourbon

  ¾ oz. tequila

  ¾ oz. Southern Comfort

  Fill a cocktail shaker with ice, add the ingredients, and shake. Strain into a chilled glass and garnish with an orange peel.

  Perhaps fitting given the name of this drink, there is no acceptable non-alcoholic version.

  If you liked Murder on the Rocks, you might like the Mattie Winston Mysteries series by Annelise Ryan. Keep reading for a sample of Working Stiff, the first in the series, available now in paperback and as an ebook.

  When Mattie Winston catches her husband, Dr. David Winston, receiving some very special loving care from R.N. Karen Owenby, she quits her job and moves out. Mattie’s best friend Izzy offers her a place to stay and suggests she’d be a natural as deputy coroner. Now, instead of taking patients’ pulses, Mattie’s weighing their hearts and livers.

  But Mattie’s first homicide call turns out to be for none other than Nurse Karen, and even though she saw her ex in a heated argument with the newly deceased the night before, she refuses to believe David could be a killer. Keeping mum about what she saw, Mattie is also left speechless by the sight of hunky Detective Steve Hurley. . . .

  From learning the ropes on her new job to sorting out her feelings about her ex and dealing with her growing attraction to Detective Hurley, Mattie’s in deep water and in danger of sinking quickly, especially when she places herself dead center in the path of a desperate—yet determined—killer. . . .

  Praise for Annelise Ryan and WORKING STIFF

  “Sassy, sexy, and suspenseful, Annelise Ryan knocks

  ’em dead in her wry and original Working Stiff.”

  —Carolyn Hart, author of Dare to Die

  “Make way for Mattie Winston, the funniest deputy

  coroner to cut up a corpse since, well, ever.”

  —Laura Levine, author of Killer Cruise

  “Ryan brings her professional expertise to her

  crisp debut.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Working Stiff has it all: suspense, laughter, a spicy

  dash of romance . . .”

  —Tess Gerritsen

  Chapter 1

  I’m surprised by how much the inside of a dead body smells like the inside of a live one. I expected something a little more tainted, like the difference between freshly ground hamburger and that gray, one-day-away-from-the-Dumpster stuff you get in the discount section at the grocery store. Of course, all I’ve seen so far is the freshly dead, not the deadly dead. Apparently the deadly dead can invade your nostrils with molecules of nasty-smelling stuff that clings and burns and threatens to make you vomit for days afterward.

  Or so says Izzy, and he should know since cutting up dead people is what he does for a living. And now, so do I. It’s only my second day at it, but I can already tell it’s going to be a real conversation stopper at cocktail parties.

  At the moment, we are standing on opposite sides of an autopsy table with a woman’s body laid out between us, her torso looking as if it’s just been filleted. I’m sure we create a strange tableau, and not just because of the open corpse. Izzy and I are the yin and yang of body types—the Munchkin and the Amazon. The only thing we have in common is a tendency to put on the pounds: Izzy is nearly as wide as he is tall, and I’m cursed—or blessed, depending on your perspective and what century you were born in—with the perfect metabolism for surviving long periods of hunger. My body is a model of energy efficiency, burning calories the way a miser on a pension burns candles.

  But that’s where our commonalities end. Izzy is barely five feet tall, while I hit the six-foot mark at the age of sixteen (though I tell anyone who asks that I’m five-foot-twelve). Izzy has a dark, Mediterranean look while I’m very fair: white-blond hair, blue eyes, and a pale complexion, though not nearly as pale as the woman on our table.

  Izzy reaches over, hands me the woman’s liver, and asks, “So, what do you think so far?” He sounds a little concerned, which isn’t surprising. This job takes a bit more getting used to than most.

  “Think? I’m trying not to think.” I place the liver on the scale beside me and record the result on my clipboard.

  “Aw, come on. When you get rig
ht down to it, is this really all that different from what you were doing before?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I answer in my best duh! tone.

  “How so? You used to cut people open. You handled their insides. You saw blood and guts. It’s pretty much the same, no?”

  Hardly. Though it’s been a mere two months since I traded in the starched white lab coat from Mercy Hospital that had my name, MATTIE WINSTON, RN, embroidered across the pocket, at the moment it feels like an eternity ago. This is nothing like my work in the OR. There, the patients’ bodies were always hidden behind sterile drapes and waterproof shields, the field of focus nothing more than an iodine-bronzed square of skin and whatever lay directly beneath it. Most of the time I never even saw a face. But this . . . not just a face but the entire body, naked, ugly, and dead. And there’s no poor-man’s tan here. These people are the color of death from head to toe. It’s a bit of a mental adjustment. After twelve years of working to save people’s lives, I now remove their innards after they’re dead and weigh them on a scale like fruit. Not exactly a move up the career ladder.

  “Well, for one thing,” I tell Izzy, “my clientele used to be alive.”

  “Live, schmive,” he says, handing me a spleen. “With all that anesthesia, they might as well have been dead. They didn’t talk to you, did they?”