“I do have an alibi for the time in question,” he said. “In fact, my alibi just left. I was interviewing Anthony Dixon about his plans for a gubernatorial run that evening.”
As soon as he said this, I wondered if Dixon’s political goals might have been behind the rushed timing and Dixon’s seemingly reluctant acquiescence to the working arrangement the two men had proposed today. “I suppose that will do,” I said with a smile, noting that the taste of Clay’s voice indicated he was telling the truth.
“Who is left among your employees?” Clay asked. I saw that he was writing, taking notes on what I was saying or perhaps making a list.
I hesitated, not wanting to entertain the possibility that any of my employees might have something to do with this. Clay must have sensed my reluctance because he looked up from whatever he was writing and said, “The sooner we can eliminate them, the better. Once we have this list established, we can start crossing names off, assuming we can definitively rule them out.”
He was right, but it didn’t make the task any more palatable. “Basically, my day staff: Pete, Jon, and Linda. And I suppose we have to consider Teddy Bear and Curtis Donovan. Neither of them was hired on yet at the time, so I doubt they’ve got anything to do with it.”
“Still, we need to be thorough,” Clay said, scribbling away.
“Oh, and Gary was off that night,” I added with a grim smile. “Though I suppose we can safely rule him out at this point.”
“So,” Clay said, consulting his notes, “our list includes Jimmy, Sam, Carter, Dr. T, Tiny, Nick, and Tyrese from the older members of the club, and Greg Nash, Stephen McGregor, and Sonja West from the newer members. And we have Linda, Pete, Teddy, Curtis, and Jon from your staff.”
“As for my employees,” I said, “I think you can put Pete and Linda down low on the list. Pete has been working with us for years, and I can’t see him doing this for any reason. And Linda is a small-built woman. Duncan told me Lewis was beaten pretty badly, and I don’t think she has the size and strength to pull it off.”
“She could have had help,” Clay tossed out. “Or used something to beat him with.”
Mal, who had remained quiet through this run of suspects, said, “We also have to consider that the second person might not be someone we know. Maybe Suzanne hired someone to do her dirty work, and maybe that person has been coming to the bar on a regular basis, sitting among the other customers, watching everything that’s gone on.”
This idea was disturbing. I did a quick mental scan, looking back over the past couple of weeks to see if I could recall a newer customer who had started coming in regularly. No one came to mind. Then I had another idea.
“You know, I’m inclined to think that the second person isn’t a hired gun,” I told the men. Both of them raised their eyebrows to me in silent question. “Think about it. Hiring someone runs the risk of money exchanges that could be dangerous, and if the culprit was arrested, what’s to stop them from ratting her out? I don’t think Suzanne would risk that kind of exposure. Plus, if she did kill Gary herself, why? Either she had a personal grudge with him, which I doubt, or she had to do it in order to reassure whoever she was working with that she wouldn’t turn on them. A quid pro quo kind of thing, you know? She had to get her hands just as dirty as the second person’s were.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you,” Clay said. “Suzanne would have wanted to work with someone she knew, someone she felt she could trust.”
“And doing it that way also makes it harder to pin all of this on any one person,” Mal said. “They both have alibis for one of the murders.”
My brain spun with possibilities, while my heart reeled over the idea that someone I knew, someone I trusted, might be out to kill me. A shiver shook me, and I shrugged back into my coat.
“I need to think about all of this,” I said, getting out of my chair and grabbing my crutches. “Can you give me a copy of that list you just made, Clay?”
“Hold on, and you can have the original,” he said. He then took out his cell phone and snapped a picture of the list. After checking to make sure it was legible, he handed the paper to me, and I tucked it into my pants pocket.
“I’m going to head back to the bar for now,” I said, “but I’ll be in touch. I’ll let Mr. Holland and Mr. Dixon know my decision by tomorrow.”
As I headed for the door, Mal got up and followed me.
Clay shifted on the couch where he sat, watching us. “Have you thought about bringing Holland in on this?” he asked.
“I did think about it,” I admitted. “But I’m not comfortable with that yet. I need more time.”
“I know all of this is uncomfortable for you, Mack,” Clay said. “But ignoring it won’t make it better. I think it’s time you quit playing defense and went on the offense.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have other people’s lives depending on you.”
“And you do,” Clay said. “That’s why you need to tell the others what’s going on. Let them make their own choices regarding their safety. If you continue to keep this to yourself, you can’t win. Sooner or later the group will find out, either because someone else will die or because you’ll figure out who the culprits are. And when the group finds out what’s been going on, they’re going to be ticked off. They’re probably going to be angry anyway, but at least by telling them now you might be able to mitigate the damages. They trust you, Mack, and by keeping this from them you’re betraying that trust.”
I whirled on Clay, my building anger and frustration reaching explosive levels. “You don’t think I know that?” I snapped at him. “Do you think this has been easy for me? I’ve agonized over this ever since that first letter came. Maybe I haven’t handled things perfectly, but I’ve done what I thought was best. If that means the group ends up hating me, I’ll deal with it when the time comes. In the meantime, until you’ve walked a mile or two in my shoes, it might be better if you kept your advice to yourself.”
With that, I opened the door and hobbled out with what little indignation my crutching gait allowed me.
Chapter 8
Mal chased after me, though given my slow pace with the crutches it wasn’t hard for him to keep up. “Mack, slow down. There are ice patches on the sidewalks. The last thing you need right now is to hit one of those and break your other leg.”
I did as he said, slowing my pace and keeping a watchful eye on the ground. Besides, the car was only a few feet away. As soon as I reached the door, I yanked it open and maneuvered myself into the seat. I tossed my crutches into the back and waited for Mal to get in on the driver’s side. He settled in and remained silent, starting the engine, and pulling out onto the street. We rode in silence for several minutes before I finally aired the thoughts churning in my head.
“I’m beginning to think inviting Clay into this group was a huge mistake. I should have listened to you, Cora, and Duncan. All of you warned me.”
“Why are you feeling like it was a mistake now? A day or so ago, you were talking about how much help he has been.”
“He was a help,” I admitted, “and he paid a dear price for his assistance, both physically and emotionally. But that was before he overstepped his bounds. Talking to Holland and Dixon, and then sandbagging me like this were uncalled for. And I don’t appreciate him second-guessing everything I’ve done up until now.”
“You may not appreciate it, but I happen to agree with him.”
I turned and shot him a look of disbelief. “You agree with what? Everything he’s done and said? Just the part with Holland and Dixon? Or the part about telling the Capone Club members that their lives are in danger?”
Mal gave me a rueful look. “All of it.”
I gaped at him, feeling disbelief and hurt. “If that’s true, why haven’t you said something?”
“For the very reason you gave Clay. I haven’t walked in your shoes. I don’t know what it feels like to have that sort of responsibility on my shoulder
s.”
“I assume you’re referring to me telling the Capone Club members about the letter writer. But what about the other stuff? What about this business with Holland and Dixon? Do you approve of that, too?”
“I do. I’ve seen the sort of stress you’ve been under lately between trying to work without stepping on anyone’s toes and carrying the burden of this letter-writer stuff. And I’ve also seen how much satisfaction you get from doing what you do. I saw the look on your face when Ben Middleton’s sister came by to tell you how grateful and happy she, Ben, and the rest of the family were for everything you had done. This crime stuff feeds some inner need you have, and because of that I think you should keep doing what you’re doing.” He paused and gave me a tired, knowing smile. “Face it, Mack, you want to keep doing it. And with the support of people like Holland and Dixon, you can keep doing it, minus much of the stress you’ve had to deal with recently.” He paused a moment and then added, “I do have some caveats, however. I think you need to think carefully about how you want it all to work, and lay that out in clear terms to them. There are a lot of things to consider: the money, how involved you are, the types of cases you’re involved in, how public your involvement will be, and when this new working relationship will begin. That’s just for starters.”
I sighed. “I don’t know anything about Holland or Dixon . . . what their personalities are like, what they’ll expect from me, or what their temperaments are like. How do I know if I want to work with them, or even if I can work with them? What if I agree to their offer and then discover that I hate working with them or they hate working with me?”
After a moment of silence, Mal said, “Maybe you can continue to work with Duncan primarily.”
I winced and quickly turned to look out my side window so Mal wouldn’t see my reaction. Mention of working with Duncan brought back the scene in front of the restaurant this morning and all the pain that came with it. “I’m not sure I want to work with anyone,” I said into the window. “I’ve enjoyed doing what I’ve done on my own or with the help of the Capone Club.”
“Then tell Holland and Dixon no,” Mal said.
I smiled, sighed, and shook my head. “No, you’re right. I want to keep doing what I’m doing, and on some level I need it. Even Holland could see that. Besides, I pretty much implied that I’m going to accept their offer but wanted a little time to think over the details.” Mal said nothing, and I turned to look out the windshield again. “I think I’ll put a time limit on it. I’ll give it . . . I don’t know . . . maybe six months? We’ll see how it goes, and if I don’t want to continue it after that time, I won’t.”
“That seems reasonable,” Mal said.
We had arrived back at the bar, and Mal was circling the block looking for a parking space. When he didn’t find one close by, he pulled up in front of the bar and stopped. “You get out here,” he said. “I’ll go park and then meet you inside.”
I started to open the door, but before I got out I turned to him. “Do you really think I should tell the members of the Capone Club about the letter writer?”
“I think it would’ve been better if you had told them back when it all started,” Mal said. “At this point, I’m not sure. Let’s think on it, and maybe run it by Duncan and the others who know. Let’s see what they think.”
I gave him an appreciative smile and started to say something more. But then an annoyed driver behind us who wanted to get by honked his horn. So I hauled my crutches and myself out of the car and shut the door.
Chapter 9
Mal pulled away, and the car behind him followed. They disappeared around the corner, and as I turned to head inside, another car pulled up where Mal had just been. Both the passenger and driver’s doors opened, and as the car idled, Billy got out on the driver’s side while his girlfriend and fiancée, Whitney, exited from the passenger side. Whitney Sampson was a stunningly beautiful woman: tall and slender with legs that went on forever, mahogany-colored skin, eyes black as coal, and cheekbones that were high and sharp, giving her face a classic, timeless beauty. She came from a well-to-do family that had a strong business and political history in Milwaukee going back several generations, and her aristocratic background was evident in her clothes and in the way she walked, talked, and held herself. Like Billy, she was interested in law, or so I assumed since that was the line of work she had chosen. Given her background and career choice, she seemed like a perfect match for Billy, and the two of them together were a stunningly gorgeous couple. But their personalities were polar opposites. Where Whitney was typically standoffish, dismissive, and arrogant at times, Billy was always gregarious, congenial, and easygoing. I had a hard time envisioning the two of them making a go of it for any length of time.
Billy came around the idling car and gave Whitney a kiss. It looked as if he was aiming for her lips, but she turned her face at the last second with an expression of impatient tolerance, and his kiss landed on her cheek instead.
“Do you know what time you’ll be done?” Whitney asked him in a tired, irritated-sounding voice.
“The usual,” Billy said amiably, ignoring her snub. He saw me then, and a big smile broke out on his face. “Mack,” he said. “You remember Whitney?”
“Of course,” I said. She was the sort of woman one didn’t forget easily. I hobbled my way toward her, stopping a foot or so away and extending one hand, my crutch tucked beneath my arm.
Whitney turned to look at me, and an expression of disdain flashed across her face. It was there and gone so quickly, I almost wondered if I’d imagined it. If it wasn’t for the fact that I’d seen that same expression on her face several times before, I likely would have dismissed it as a figment of my imagination. Whitney extended her hand, a polite expression now firmly in place on her face.
“My car broke down,” Billy said. “It’s in the shop, so Whitney drove me here today.”
“I suggested he get a rental car,” Whitney said, a hint of disappointment in her tone. “Or just buy a new one to replace that old heap he drives, but he said either option was a ridiculous expenditure of money.”
“It is,” Billy said. “My budget can’t handle it right now.”
Whitney rolled her eyes. “But my budget can,” she said in a weary voice.
Whitney had finished law school and joined a prestigious firm downtown last year. Her salary, on top of her family money, meant she could probably buy Billy a new car outright. But Billy clung stubbornly to his independent ways, refusing to take advantage of Whitney’s money or her family’s status, determined to make his own way.
I knew from talking with Billy in the past that this clash of cultures and Billy’s determined efforts to stand on his own two feet were ongoing issues between him and Whitney. Unlike Whitney, Billy didn’t come from money. He was financing his education through a combination of scholarships, school loans, and the money he made working at my bar. It was a matter of pride for him to acquire his education on his own.
Whitney, on the other hand, not only had lots of money at her disposal, she was as class-conscious as they came. She’d made it clear in the past that she was not happy with Billy’s job, that she considered it and my bar—and by association me, I supposed—beneath him. Billy, however, loved what he did and had said on multiple occasions that he intended to stay with his bartending duties until he graduated from law school. Whitney’s continued efforts to shame him into a better job had thus far been unsuccessful. In fact, he’d even hinted a few times about how he might like to pull the occasional shift behind the bar after he finished law school as a way to unwind. This inevitably led to puns and jokes about Billy taking the bar exam, stuff we’d all heard dozens of times but still laughed at with pleasant tolerance.
“I was going to take the bus,” Billy said with a boyish grin and a shrug. “But Whitney insisted that she drive me.”
“The bus is so . . . pedestrian,” Whitney said, uttering the word pedestrian as if it tasted rank and disgusting. She
glanced up at the façade of my building. “Sort of like this job,” she added.
I might have been offended had I been focused on what she was saying, but I wasn’t. Instead, I was focused on the faint scent I picked up after I shook her hand and the sound of saxophone music that came with it. It was a smell I’d encountered elsewhere recently.
“Whitney,” I said, “I love the smell of your perfume. What is it?”
“Opium,” she said. “It’s my favorite, and the only scent I ever wear.”
“It’s quite nice.” I forced a smile, but it must not have looked convincing.
“Are you feeling ill, Mack?” Billy asked. “You look a little pale.”
“Billy is right,” Whitney said, mustering up an expression of feigned concern. “Your face is the color of paste.”
“I’m fine,” I said with a dismissive wave of one hand. “We redheads tend toward the pale, you know, and being cooped up inside for most of the winter doesn’t help. I just need a cup of coffee, maybe with a shot of whiskey in it,” I added with a wink. “Can I offer you a drink on the house, Whitney?”
As expected, Whitney looked horrified at the suggestion. It wasn’t that she didn’t drink; I knew from talking with Billy that she did. Rather it was the idea of going into the bar—my bar—that put her off, either because the establishment wasn’t up to her standards or she didn’t want to encourage Billy by seeming to approve of the place. I suspected it was both.
“That’s very kind of you,” Whitney said. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to pass. I have another engagement I need to get to.” She dismissed me then, shifting her gaze to Billy. “If you can’t get a ride home at the end of your shift, call me.” The tone in her voice made it clear that, if he did call her, it would be a great imposition.
A Toast to Murder Page 8