Woulds

by J. L. Wilson

  The kitchen staff all knew to listen closely to his repertoire because it gave excellent insight into his temperament. When he sang various songs from Showboat, things were going well. I had never heard him raise his voice to any employee, but when he sang Neil Young’s “Barstool Blues” his staff knew they needed to pick up the pace.

  Alan paused near me, a giant metal mixing bowl in his arms. His white chef’s coat was spotless and crisp, fitted to his lean frame by tucks in the back. Alan always changed his coat whenever it got splattered because he said a clean coat meant a clean kitchen. He eyed me while he briskly whisked the batter in the bowl. “Still feeling okay?”

  I nodded. “I’m fine, but . . .” I hesitated, not sure if I should confide in him. “I’m worried about a friend of mine. He called earlier and he sounded upset.”

  Alan arched one dark brown eyebrow. “Upset? About what?”

  I bit my lip, not sure what to say. “I can’t really tell you. But if you talk to Owen and he says there are some problems at the Yoke, would you tell me?”

  “The Yoke?” Alan withdrew the whisk and eyed the consistency of the batter when it dribbled back into the bowl before resuming his beating. “Do you know someone who works there?”

  I stood and gathered up my dinnerware. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything.” I went to the dishwashing station at the back of the kitchen and handed my dishes to the boy.

  Alan watched me traverse my way through the busy kitchen. When I reached the door leading to the Parlor he called out, “If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

  I nodded and beat a retreat, happy I didn’t spill the beans about Will. I didn’t want to get Alan in trouble with his boyfriend, but if anyone knew about problems brewing, it would be the Sheriff.

  I went back to the Acorn, which was busier than when I left. I checked the clock over the door. It was after eight, which meant golf matches were wrapping up, baseball games were finishing, and the swimming pool was closed for the night. We’d probably have a good crowd from now until closing.

  “Somebody said you had a shiner, but I didn’t know it was such a beauty.”

  I turned at the bantering voice behind me. PJ Fitz was coming through the back door, bringing with him a gust of hot moist air. “Hey, PJ.” I brushed by him to get to the drop-gate into the bar area. “Is it raining?”

  “Not yet.” He put a hand on my arm, pulling me to a halt. “Somebody told me Guy Gibson threw a punch at you.”

  I tugged my arm. “He was aiming for Rob Huntington but I got in the way.”

  “I heard John Smalley decked Guy. I’m surprised he helped Rob,” PJ said. “You’d think John might hold a grudge.”

  I paused on my way to the bar. “Hold a grudge? For what?”

  “Rob’s been a fuckup since high school and John’s always worked hard all his life. He probably doesn’t think it’s fair Rob has so much and he has so little.”

  I remembered John’s bitter comment about the teasing in high school. “John is an independent businessman and Rob has a job managing your chicken factory.” I grimaced. “That’s not so great.”

  PJ leveled a glare at me. “Don’t knock it. The factory keeps a lot of people working.”

  I swear, if I heard that argument one more time I was going to take a swing at the person who said it. “At what price? Why would John resent Rob?”

  “Rob got the girl.”

  I turned to stare at him. “Was John in love with Marianne?”

  PJ nodded. “Just about every guy in school was in love with the Ice Princess.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t get it. What is it about her that makes men go google-eyed?”

  PJ grinned. “If you’ve got to ask, you don’t get it.”

  Well, that was probably right. I continued walking, weaving my way between two groups of drinkers who congregated near the end of the bar. I ducked under the gate and jumped up on the Puller’s Platform while PJ elbowed his way through the crowd to stand at the counter.

  “Give me a Maker’s Mark,” he barked over the noise of the people around him.

  I nodded to indicate I heard him then I checked in with our brew master’s son, Mike, who worked the late shift. His evening eight-to-two shift meant he could go immediately from the bar to the bakery where he worked from two until six in the morning. We often overlapped our shifts when it was busy, like tonight.

  We divvied up the workload with him taking the north end of the bar and me taking the south end in addition to any orders from the staff. That meant I was stuck with PJ. I filled a highball glass with two fingers of Maker’s Mark, grabbed the napkin with the note on it and set both in front of PJ where he stood at the bar, elbows planted on the edge to give himself some space. It also let one arm press against the boob of the blonde in the bar chair next to him. The babe giggled when he raised his arm, the action giving him a good feel.

  “Your wife left you a note,” I said loudly, tapping the napkin on the bar counter.

  The blonde eyed PJ. She often came in on weekends with girlfriends, sometimes leaving with a guy, sometimes leaving with the girls. I think she waitressed at the cafe downtown and had a mean boyfriend who worked weekends at the John Deere factory in Des Moines, which probably explained why she came to the bar on the weekend.

  PJ glowered at me. Although he and John Smalley were both darkly colored and bearded, that was where the resemblance ended. PJ was like a dark thundercloud, only a minute or two away from lightning and disaster. John was like a big carnival panda bear, comforting despite his size. “I’ve already talked to my wife.” He took a gulp of his whisky.

  I frowned at his lack of respect for fine Kentucky bourbon. “Fine. I’ll pitch it.” I crumpled the napkin in my fist.

  PJ’s hand snaked out and grasped my wrist. “I’ll take it.”

  I dropped the wad of paper on the counter and yanked my arm away from him before moving to the right to answer a question from another customer. I watched PJ covertly when he read the note before wadding it into a tight little ball and tossing it at the wastebasket near the bottle wall opposite the counter. I waited until he was diverted by conversation with the blonde, then I retrieved the napkin and opened it under the cover of the counter.

  Patrick: uncouple yourself from your whore and keep your promise to appear at the club.

  I grinned then tossed the napkin in the wastebasket. You go, girl.

  “I suppose you know what’s in the note,” PJ mumbled when I was near him again a few minutes later.

  “I talked to Isabel earlier. She was worried you’d forget you were supposed to go to some dinner or other.” I couldn’t resist a little dig. “She said you were probably busy.”

  PJ leered at me. “Yeah, I was. I’m a man with appetites and my wife doesn’t always satisfy them.” He took another slug of bourbon like it proved how much of a man he was.

  I rolled my eyes. “You may have appetites but you’ve got no taste. Your wife is a class act.”

  PJ shrugged. “It was an arranged marriage.”

  I laughed aloud. “In this day and age? Please.”

  “Her family owned a company my brother wanted. It was easier for me to marry her for it.” PJ swirled the amber liquor in his glass, one corner of his mouth twisted in a wry smile. “It worked out fine for both of us. She wanted security and I wanted the company.”

  “So you lived happily ever after.” I considered Rob and Marianne, who waited for years to get married only to have the marriage be so unhappy. Then there was John Smalley, who was married years earlier only to divorce a few years later. And Alan, who bounced from relationship to relationship. Was their graduating class all cursed?

  “Where’s Guy?” PJ twisted so he leaned back against the blonde while he surveyed the bar. “He missed the dinner. He always goes to all those charity fund raisers.”

  “Marianne mentioned he was gone.” I edged to the left, heading for the group of drinkers at the end of the bar, some of whom were
holding up empty glasses.

  “Well, Marianne would know what Guy’s doing. She’s got him tied to her apron the same she’s got Rob tied.” PJ turned, his torso pressed against the side of the blonde so he almost enveloped her with his plump body. “How come I’ve never met you before?” he asked her.

  I left him to his games and focused on my other customers, not anxious to see duplicity in action. My own divorce was amiable and based on a mutual decision, but as a bartender, I saw too many spouses who used my bar like their private playground. I disliked it but couldn’t do much about it.

  I fielded more good-natured kidding about my black eye, with several people expressing disapproval of either Rob, Guy, or both. I chose not to take sides, but it was interesting to see who sided with who. I kept a mental tally and came to the conclusion that most of the customers were split fifty-fifty, with blame on each man equally.

  It was almost ten o’clock and nearing the end of my shift when I made my way back to PJ’s end of the bar in time to hear him say to the blonde, “. . . over my dead body.”

  I grinned when I picked up the woman’s empty glass. “That’s tempting.”

  “You don’t mean that, Tuck,” PJ said in the wheedling voice he used when he drank a tad too much. “We’d be lost without you. Everybody loves Tucker Frye, the Mistress Mixologist at the best brewpub in Barnsdale, Iowa.”

  “It’s the only brewpub in Barnsdale, Iowa.” I smoothed my bar cloth over the counter. “And even if I off you, it doesn’t mean I’d get caught. I’m smarter than that.”

  He raised the remains of his Maker’s Mark to me in salute. “True. No one would believe such a horrible thing from someone so perky.”

  “Perky?” I started to seriously consider ways I could kill him without risk to myself or my business.

  PJ nodded, the dark shadows of the bar making his pudgy face seem almost thin. “Since you lost all your weight, you’re definitely perky.” He took another swallow while I considered a biting retort. “Besides, you’re clever enough to escape detection.”

  Trust PJ to give me a backhanded compliment. “I didn’t know that a large weight loss would transfer me to the category of perky. What was I before?”

  “You were robust.” He burped softly. “I meant what I said. Those protesters will stage an egg-out over my dead body.”

  As usual, the subject of conversation was yanked back to PJ who always acted like a drama queen, or in his case, a drama prince. I was told that his mother, Eleanor, was the true drama queen in the family. The “egg-out” was the upcoming Egg-Free Friday, planned to draw attention to the deplorable conditions the chickens endured in order to provide us with our eggs.

  That thought made me consider Will again. I would be off-shift in a few minutes. I could drive by the Yoke and see what, if anything, was happening. If it was quiet, I could go home and hopefully have a worry-free night.

  “I don’t expect you to sympathize,” PJ continued, his plump fingers smoothing his dark goatee which successfully hid his sagging chin. PJ had gained and lost weight throughout the fifteen years I knew him. As a recent weight-loss victor myself, I could commiserate with his battle, but PJ was losing his fight.

  “Of course I don’t sympathize. The chicken farm is one of the most inhumane places on earth.”

  “Factory farming keeps prices low.” PJ smiled smugly at me, his dark eyes cold. “And it helps the local economy.”

  “At what cost?” I demanded. “Chickens are kept confined in a tiny space, they never see the light of day, it’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter, and they’re forced to lay eggs until they’re used up. Chicks are mangled if they aren’t wanted.” I drew in a deep breath, forcing myself to calmness. Arguing with PJ Fitz wouldn’t get the damn chicken factory closed. Only cold, hard evidence might do that.

  I left him, sure if I stayed I’d either hit him or say something wrong, something which would get Will in more trouble than he already was. I stayed busy for a few minutes when a women’s softball team came in, followed by an influx of people attending a family reunion. Once I handled those customers, I consulted with Mike and turned the till over to him.

  I grabbed my purse and ducked under the bar gate in time to see Alan working his way through the clumps of customers toward me. He’d shed his white chef’s coat and wore a dark brown polo shirt and pale khaki shorts. He appeared cool and crisp, not at all like a man who just spent an eight hour stint in a kitchen, cooking.

  “We were wrapping up in the kitchen when I heard a bus boy talking to the kid at the dishwasher. The bus boy said there’s trouble at the Yoke. His girlfriend called him about it. She lives near there.” Alan spoke in a low voice, his gaze darting to PJ, focused on the blonde.

  “What kind of trouble?” I longed to check my cell phone for messages but I restrained myself.

  “He said squad cars were all around the place and a bunch of the chickens got out. The police blocked off the road leading to York.”

  “Holy crap,” I breathed. “PJ’s sitting right over there. I wonder why he hasn’t left. Wouldn’t the police call him if there were problems there?”

  Alan nodded. “They should. Or they’d call Rob, since he’s the manager there.”

  “I talked to Rob this morning. His number is probably still on my phone.” Without giving myself a minute to consider it, I found the number and dialed it. I moved from the crowds into the back hallway where it was quieter, Alan following me.

  Rob answered on the second ring. “What?” he demanded brusquely.

  “Rob, it’s Tucker Frye. I heard there were problems at the Yoke. Is everything okay?”

  “I’m on my way there right now,” he replied. “I’m on the County Home road to York, I just left my cabin. Are you at the Acorn? Have you seen PJ? I’ve been trying to get hold of him for the last hour but his cell phone must be off.”

  “He’s sitting at the bar. Shall I have him call you?” I gestured to Alan and nodded at the busy pub, full of patrons. He hurried away.

  “Have him meet me. The police called me and told me there were intruders on the premises. They shot someone.”

  “What?” I almost dropped the phone. “Who? Where?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t have the details. But Sheriff Knott said one of the trespassers was shot. An ambulance was on the way but Knott sounded pretty shook up. I have to go, Tucker. I need to concentrate on my driving. You know how the road is here.”

  I did know. The County Home road was twisty and winding, going up and down hills with very limited visibility in spots. Woods lined each side of the road and deer or other critters were apt to leap at you at any time. Most people who drove to York from Barnsdale went to Highway 63, east of town, which was a straighter route. But for Rob, leaving from his cabin near the river, the twisting road would be fastest. “I’ll tell PJ to meet you. Be careful.”

  “Thanks. Oh, and Tuck, call Marianne, would you? I didn’t have a chance to talk to her.” He clicked the phone off before I could say ‘yea’ or ‘nay.’

  I clicked the End button on my phone and lowered it, leaning over to peer into the bar. PJ and Alan were in conversation, PJ staring at the cell phone in his hand. A sudden shiver shook me. Someone’s walking on a grave, my mama used to say when a shiver like that came out of nowhere.

  I hoped she was wrong.

  Chapter 5

  I ducked into the staff break room at the back of the bar and extracted the battered phone book from a pile of magazines on the table. I found Marianne’s home phone number and dialed it on my cell phone. When she answered, I said in a rush, “This is Tucker Frye. I talked to Rob. He’s on his way to the factory in York. There’s been trouble.”

  “Really? What kind of trouble?” She sounded almost bored, not like an eager newspaperwoman. Of course, she didn’t need to be eager with people calling her with the news. I noticed she didn’t ask why Rob asked me to call her or ask why I was talking to Rob. Ice Princess. Apt name. “I’m not sur
e. He was driving there to find out.”

  “Funny. I didn’t hear anything on the police scanner.” She sounded curious, not worried. “Where are you? Did Rob call you or did you talk to him in person?”

  Police scanner? Then I remembered: Marianne owned the local newspaper. Presumably she’d cover any news stories and thus might have a scanner close at hand. “I called him. Somebody said there were problems at the Yoke and I was wondering what was happening. You might want to get over there. They’ve blocked the roads and there’s a real mess.”

  “Thanks, Tucker. I’ll call our photographer. We may need pictures to go with the story. I’ll call Rob on his mobile phone while I drive. Maybe he can tell me what’s going on.” She hung up without so much as a thank-you or sorry-to-inconvenience-you-again.

  I stowed my phone in my purse. Marianne sounded more worried about getting a news story than she did about her husband. Was it more evidence of their deteriorating relationship? Or was it a sign of Marianne’s professionalism? I realized I wanted something negative to blame on her and I mentally chastised myself. Just because I didn’t like Marianne, it didn’t mean she was a cold-hearted bitch. Did it?

  Alan appeared in the doorway. “PJ is on his way to the factory.”

  I glimpsed PJ bobbing through the crowd. “Is he sober enough to drive?” The last thing I needed was a lawsuit because that asshole got into an accident. It was a constant worry of mine despite the fact we carried a hefty insurance policy to protect ourselves and I trained all personnel to alert me to any drunks. That was one reason I followed Rob out of the Acorn the night before, to make sure he didn’t try to drive. Well, that and to try to circumvent any fighting, of course.

  “He called his son. Three will pick him up and they’ll go together.”