A Toast to Murder

by Allyson K. Abbott

Despite her haughty posturing, whenever Suzanne spoke to anyone, she came across as warm, friendly, and polite. I watched her socialize with Joe and Frank, who did a remarkable job of hiding their loathing, and then with Carter and Holly. Both times, she seemed genuine and warm, and she carried the bulk of the conversation, while Tad stood quietly at her side doing his job: looking stunningly handsome.

  After chatting with Carter and Holly for a few minutes, Suzanne steered Tad to the bar, where the two of them ordered drinks. Once they had them, they made their way to a table where Cora was seated with Tiny and a frustrated-looking Alicia, who had retreated after falling victim to Whitney’s withering glares. Suzanne and Tad settled in, and a moment later, laughter emanated from Cora, Tiny, and Alicia, apparently amused by something Suzanne had said. Their laughter sounded sincere and unaffected, which piqued my curiosity. Granted, Suzanne was a well-practiced socialite who knew how to engage people, but was it possible to come across so warm and genuine if she was a scheming, cold-hearted killer? Was she putting on an act? Or had we figured this thing all wrong?

  In sharp contrast to Suzanne, Whitney, who was dressed in a glittery gold-lamé dress that hugged her body and matching gold high heels, had looked out of place and uncomfortable from the moment she set foot in the bar. Billy had introduced her to several people, and the smile she gave each person she met looked pained and forced. Eventually, she steered him off to a corner of the bar near where I was standing, listening in to a discussion between Joe, Frank, and Stephen McGregor about the merits, or lack thereof, of modern educational techniques. The bar TV was on, tuned to a station where we could watch the ball drop at midnight, but the sound was muted for now. Music was playing on the bar’s sound system at a volume loud enough to be festive but not drown out conversations. Though Billy and Whitney were standing about six feet away, I was able to overhear their conversation above all the other ruckus.

  “I can’t believe this is what you’re wearing,” Whitney said in a side whisper that reeked with disapproval.

  Billy had changed out of the jeans and white shirt he’d been wearing behind the bar earlier into black dress pants and a pale green dress shirt that complemented his eyes. The shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and the sleeves were rolled up, revealing his muscular forearms. I thought he looked handsome and hot as hell.

  “We have certain standards to maintain,” Whitney went on in her hushed but condescending tone. “You’re going to have to learn to do better.”

  Billy’s lips grew thin and tight, but he kept his smile on his face and kissed Whitney on the cheek, an action she tolerated.

  “You’re going to have to learn to love me as I am, Whitney,” he said. “Don’t try to turn me into your parents. I have my own standards, and I’m quite happy with them.”

  You go, Billy! I thought.

  His tone had been firm but polite, not angry or chastising. At first, Whitney merely stared at him in shocked disbelief. She clearly wasn’t used to being put in her place, and eventually her expression morphed into a thundercloud. She stuttered for a few seconds before grabbing Billy’s arm in a viselike grip and hauling him off toward the neighboring room in the new addition.

  Nick and Tyrese had arrived together, both of them dressed in jeans and polo shirts. Mal’s family arrived a little before eleven. All of them were freshly showered and wearing clean, albeit casual clothes. The men had on jeans and pullover sweaters; Colleen was wearing beige slacks and a brown sweater over a white blouse.

  So far, it was an interesting mix of people, dress, and conversations. Everyone was mingling and mixing, moving from one table to another or simply circulating in the room. There was an air of expectation, a nervous energy to the crowd that hinted at things to come. That excitation ramped up a notch or two for me when more guests arrived, two of whom weren’t on the list of guests I’d given to Teddy.

  Chapter 23

  I saw Teddy waving at me from over by the door when I was chatting with the Signoriello brothers, and after excusing myself, I got up and went over to see what he needed. He was standing with the door slightly ajar, holding it so it wouldn’t open farther.

  “What’s up, Teddy?” I asked.

  “This woman outside said she was invited to come to the party, but her name isn’t on the list.”

  I peered out through the crack of open door and saw Courtney Metcalfe standing there. I hadn’t put her name on the list because I wasn’t sure she’d show up despite Duncan’s plans to invite her. Plus, I wanted to see and greet her when she arrived.

  “You’re that bartender I’ve seen on the news, the one who was working with Duncan Albright,” she said.

  “Actually, I’m the owner of this bar,” I said, swallowing down my initial shock. “And you’re Courtney, the woman who stood him up at the altar.”

  Now it was her turn to look shocked. “Ah, I see Duncan has told you about me.”

  An ironic statement, considering my recent discussions with Duncan on the matter.

  “Duncan invited me to come to this party,” Courtney said. She leaned to one side and peered past me to the interior of the bar. “Quite a crowd you have already. Is Duncan here yet?”

  “Not yet,” I said through tight lips.

  She let forth with a petulant sigh and looked back at me. “May I come in, please? It’s cold out here.”

  “Sure, come on in.” Teddy opened the door to let her in, and then closed and locked it again behind her. “Make yourself at home,” I said with a forced smile, and then I crutched away from her, heading for Cora’s table.

  Courtney stood just inside the door, eyeing the crowd. I settled into a chair, and when Cora leaned over to say something to me, I held up a hand to shush her. I glanced over at the bar and saw Tom Summer staring at Courtney. I turned back and watched Courtney scope out the room, curious to see if there was a hint of recognition on her face.

  Whitney got up from the table where she was sitting with Billy and made her way over to Courtney.

  “Courtney!” Whitney cooed. The two of them exchanged a brief hug and then did the brushing kiss thing on one another’s cheeks. “I didn’t know you were coming to this,” Whitney said.

  “I almost didn’t,” Courtney said with a tone of disgust. “I don’t think that redheaded bartender woman wanted to let me in.”

  “Well, you’re in now, so come over and have a seat.”

  “First, I need a drink.” Courtney removed her coat, draping it over her arm. Then she headed for the bar with Whitney on her tail. I kept shifting my gaze from Courtney to Tom, watching them both closely. She ordered a drink—a cherry-orange sparkler—then turned to Whitney and started talking again.

  “I don’t see Duncan here,” Courtney said.

  Tom Summers spilled some of the champagne he was pouring.

  “He may show up later,” Whitney said. “In the meantime, come and join me and Billy.”

  Summers finished the drink and slid it across the bar to Courtney, who took it without a second look at him. Then she and Whitney turned and headed back to the table where Billy was seated.

  I looked back at Tom Summers, my eyebrows raised. I gave a nod of my head toward the kitchen, and then got up and headed that way. Summers followed.

  As soon as the door closed behind us, I said, “I’m surprised she accepted your invitation.”

  “I’m not,” Duncan grumbled, “given how hard she’s been hounding me.” He scratched irritably at his beard.

  “Be careful,” I said, nodding toward his chin. “You don’t want to loosen that thing.”

  “It itches like crazy.”

  “Isabel did her job well with it,” I said. “No one has recognized you.”

  Isabel was a friend of Duncan’s family who did theater and stage makeup. At one time, she had worked in Hollywood, but love and a man brought her back to Milwaukee, where she employed her skills for theater groups. She had also employed her skills for me and Duncan a couple of times before so we could get toget
her without anyone being the wiser.

  “And not only is Courtney here,” I went on, “she’s wearing Opium perfume.”

  Duncan frowned, though it looked rather odd since his eyebrows were fake also. “Courtney may be annoyingly persistent,” he said, “and she has her faults, but I honestly don’t think she’s a killer. A cheater, yes, but not a killer,” he added, giving me a hint about what had gone wrong with their wedding plans.

  “Who is this Courtney person?” Drew Johnson asked. Only his name wasn’t Drew Johnson any more than Duncan’s was Tom Summers. Drew Johnson was really Arthur Cook, aka Arty to those who knew him well. He, like Duncan, was a police detective, and a patron of my bar. Having the two of them come here in disguise posing as a hired bartender and cook was part of the night’s plan. Since the fact that I was working with the police was now public knowledge, Duncan and I had decided to share the details of the letter writer case with a few of Duncan’s trusted coworkers. Arty had been one of them, and since he had worked as a short-order cook when he was younger, it was decided to bring him in as the hired cook. Given that his real last name was Cook, it seemed like fate.

  “She’s Duncan’s ex-fiancée,” I explained. “She stood him up at the altar, and apparently, she’s been stalking him ever since, trying to get him back.”

  “Oh,” Arty said, his eyes growing big. He bit his lip and went back to his cooking duties, deciding, perhaps wisely, not to engage any further in this particular conversation.

  “As long as we’re on the topic of surprise guests,” Duncan said, “I should probably tell you that Jimmy may show up.”

  I felt a sudden panic, wondering if he had told Jimmy about the letter writer. But Duncan seemed to read my thoughts.

  “Relax, I didn’t tell him,” he said. “I still think you’re barking up the wrong tree with that one, my little bloodhound, but I’m willing to keep an open mind.”

  I flashed him a smile of gratitude.

  “So what’s your plan from here on out?” Duncan asked.

  “For now, I’m going to let everyone mingle and chat until midnight. After we toast in the New Year, I’m going to initiate a discussion about the letter writer, tell everyone that an arrest is imminent based on some forensic evidence we found in one of the clues. Then we can sit back and see if anyone does or says anything incriminating. I’m curious to see how Suzanne will react. Maybe I can catch her or someone else in a lie.”

  “Are you going to come right out and ask anyone if they did it?” Duncan said with a curious smile.

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. The guilty party is bound to lie, and even if I pick up on that, it’s not like my word is enough evidence to convict anyone.”

  Duncan chuckled.

  “What?” I said, feeling a bit offended. “Do you think it’s a stupid plan?”

  “No, not at all. I’m just amused by how much you sound like a cop.”

  “Well, I’ve been hanging around enough of them lately. It’s bound to rub off.”

  “If any cops are going to rub off on you, I want it to be me,” Duncan said with more than a hint of salaciousness in his voice. He winked at me, kissed the tip of my nose, and then added, “In the meantime, we best get back out there and stir the pot, don’t you think?”

  The party was in full swing when we went back out front. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, and the conversations were flowing as freely as the food and drink. One of my beer taps ran dry, and I asked Duncan if he would run down to the basement to replace the empty keg, something he’d learned to do during his undercover time playing bartender.

  “I’d do it, but I hate negotiating those basement stairs or those kegs with these crutches,” I told him. “I’ll tend bar until you get back.”

  “No problem. Be right back.”

  As the final hour of the year approached, a few other guests arrived. One of them was Dr. T, who came with a tall, thin man she introduced as Roger. At first I thought he was her date, but Dr. T later explained that he was a cousin of hers, a medical student who was staying with her for a while.

  On the heels of Dr. T’s arrival, Jimmy Patterson showed up. Based on my conversation with Duncan earlier, I had let Teddy know he might show up and to allow him in. I happened to be standing by the door when he arrived.

  “Hey, Mack,” Jimmy said, as Teddy let him in and then closed and locked the door behind him. He scanned the room. “Looks like you have a good crowd here.”

  “Indeed, we do,” I said, putting on my best front. “Please make yourself at home. Food and drinks are all on the house. Can I get you something?”

  “A club soda with lime would be great,” he said.

  “No alcohol?”

  He shook his head. “No, thanks. But I will have some of that pizza. And I’ll get my own drink.” He eyed my crutches with a sympathetic look. “You appear to be a bit compromised at the moment.” With that, he headed for the food that was spread out on the bar.

  I wasn’t altogether comfortable with having Jimmy there—a cop as a potential second foe seemed far more dangerous to me—but it served the purpose for the evening. Plus, I was grateful that Duncan was willing to at least consider the possibility of Jimmy’s involvement. Given that I knew how much Jimmy disliked me, his presence made me that much more suspicious of him. What other motivation would he have had to come to the party unless he was curious about how much we knew?

  I watched Duncan, aka Tom, closely as Jimmy approached the bar. Duncan did nothing to greet Jimmy other than ask him if he could get him a drink. Duncan had been talking to the guests as little as possible and using a fake voice all night to go along with his disguise, dropping his usual Scottish lilt, and speaking a few notes higher than usual. His voice still tasted like chocolate to me, but the flavor was noticeably different, with a saccharine undertone that I’d never tasted before. Duncan served Jimmy his drink and then moved to the far end of the bar while Jimmy helped himself to the food. Once Jimmy had a full plate, he carried it over to a table where Nick and Tyrese were seated and settled in. If Jimmy had recognized Duncan at all, he was covering it well.

  The final arrival was my surprise guest of the evening. It was Clay Sanders.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” I said to him as he walked up to the bar. “Shouldn’t you be home in bed?”

  “I had no idea you were having a private party,” he said. “Apparently, I wasn’t on the guest list,” he added with feigned hurt.

  “Only because you just got out of the hospital. Of course, you’re welcome here any time.”

  “I had to get out of the house. The walls were closing in on me.”

  “Well, you picked an interesting time to come. If things go according to plan, I’m hoping to out the letter writer tonight, and whoever is helping her.”

  “Really?” Clay said, his eyebrows arching with surprise and interest. “Have you winnowed down the potential suspects any?”

  “We have,” I said, and then I whispered in his ear, giving him the names of the remaining suspects. “They’re all here,” I concluded.

  “Then I guess I better settle in.” He eyed the food spread at the bar. “My diet is kind of restricted right now. I don’t suppose you have anything mild and soft.”

  “I have some leftover chicken noodle soup in the fridge. How about I heat some up for you? I can fix you some toast to go with it.”

  “That would be fantastic,” he said with a grateful smile.

  He made his way over to a table where Whitney, Courtney, Billy, Tad, and Suzanne had congregated. I suspected his seating choice was intentional, since he knew we suspected Suzanne as the letter writer.

  I went into the kitchen, and with a little help from Arty, I made Clay’s soup and toast. While the soup was heating, Arty said, “How’s it going out there?”

  “So far, so good. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves.”

  “When are you going to start poking people with your stick?”

 
; “After midnight. Once the toasts are made and the ball has dropped, I’ll drop mine.”

  “I see Jimmy Patterson made it.”

  I nodded. “Did Duncan tell you what we discovered about him?”

  Arty shrugged. “He told me Patterson is moonlighting as a security guard for the Collier warehouses on the waterfront. And he told me that Patterson doesn’t like or trust you, and that the feeling is mutual.”

  “That about sums it up,” I said.

  “I have to say, I think you’re wrong about Patterson,” Arty said. I shot him a look of exasperation, and he held up a hand. “But I’m willing to keep an open mind,” he added quickly.

  “Jimmy doesn’t know anything about you and Duncan being here, does he?”

  “Not as far as I know. The only people who are in on it are me, Duncan, and Holland.”

  “Chief Holland knows what’s going on?”

  Arty nodded. “Duncan wanted to be totally open about it all. Plus, I think he wanted Holland to know about this threat, so he’d understand why you were so upset about that business that appeared in the paper.”

  I didn’t like the fact that Holland was part of this, but I supposed it couldn’t be helped. “Thanks for doing this, Arty,” I said.

  “No problem.”

  “Can I ask you a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Would you carry this soup and toast out to Clay Sanders for me? I can’t manage it very well with these crutches.”

  “Happy to. I was about to go out there and check on the status of the food bar anyway.”

  I followed Arty to Clay’s table, and as Arty set the tray of food down, I grabbed a nearby chair and dragged it over. Then I sat down, positioning myself between Suzanne and Whitney.

  The sound of saxophone music came through loud and strong, telling me that both women were wearing their Opium perfume. I subdued the synesthetic response as best I could and tried to monitor any other reactions I might have to them. The women were discussing some dress shop—Tad and Billy both looked bored to tears—and when there was a lull in the conversation, I thanked them all for coming. Then I dropped my little bombshell about the letter writer by telling Tad that the cops had found some trace evidence that we felt certain was left accidentally, and that we hoped to catch the person soon—tonight, in fact. I watched the reactions of all three women closely as I said this. Whitney’s expression was one of boredom, and irritation that she had to be in this awful place. I wondered if she knew about the letter writer. Had Billy clued her in?