7 Triple Shot

by Sandra Balzo

  Well, I suppose Sarah’s apprentice could always come in late or sleep at the Kingston Realty office the next day. After all, who’d be there to know? But . . .

  ‘Did you say “clock in”?’ The phrase made me wonder if Brigid mightn’t have had a second job.

  In the ‘hospitality’ industry’s oldest profession.

  ‘Just a figure of speech,’ Benjy said, proving he really could blush. ‘Brigid would always stop by the bar when she arrived, order a drink and leave her purse with me.’

  ‘Her purse?’ There was an edge of displeasure in MaryAnne’s voice. ‘Benjy, you open a tab with just a charge card, not the whole handbag. What if her wallet had disappeared and she claimed you’d stolen it? The club – my club – could be liable.’

  Now Benjy was bright red. ‘Brig . . . Ms Ferndale wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘So says you,’ MaryAnne snapped. ‘Edict, from this moment to the end of the world: you do not store customers’ personal items behind my bar, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes’m.’ The bartender looked miserable. Yet another nice, young man duped by a conniving pretty woman.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Benjy, did Brigid meet someone here Monday night?’

  ‘Well, like I told Ms Williams and the deputies, Ms Ferndale tended to wander. That’s why she didn’t want to carry . . .’ Benjy glanced at MaryAnne and left it at that.

  ‘When you say “wander”. . . ?’

  ‘We called it cruising in my day,’ MaryAnne said. ‘Working the room.’

  And with no visible handbag, Brigid probably got showered with free drinks by all hopefuls for the duration. Shrewd of her.

  ‘Did you see who she might have wandered to?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, that’s the odd part. Monday night, Ms Ferndale stayed close to the bar here. Said she was meeting someone later. I knew she’d been looking for a new job, because she hated the wom–’ another glance at MaryAnne – ‘the one she had.’

  Even I would have to concede that Sarah Kingston was, at best, an acquired taste. ‘So you had the impression the person Brigid was waiting for was going to offer her a job?’

  Benjy frowned. ‘I don’t know that. She didn’t seem to be sure. Something about her needing to be a . . . rainmaker?’

  ‘Meaning bring in new clients,’ MaryAnne said. ‘That explains why Brigid would bad-mouth Sarah when I’d call. That little snake in the grass wanted to hijack me from Kingston Realty and carry my house listing along to a new firm.’

  ‘Were you going to jump ship?’ I asked.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ MaryAnne snorted. ‘Brigid spent three or four hours a night minimum in this club alone. Do you think I’d trust Ms Swinging Disco with the sale of my two-million-dollar home?’

  The mental reactions of Maggy Thorsen, in the order they overwhelmed her:

  Holy shit. Two million dollars?

  And then: MaryAnne, given the amount of time Sarah had spent at Kingston Realty lately, you already were trusting Brigid with selling your home. You just didn’t know it.

  I said, ‘OK, Benjy. What time did this person Brigid was waiting for show up?’

  He shook his head. ‘Sorry, but it was busy for a Monday, so I had other customers to serve.’

  ‘And pretty girls’ handbags to mind?’ From MaryAnne.

  I prompted Benjy. ‘So, Brigid came in a little after eleven . . .’

  ‘And about fifteen, twenty minutes later, a woman came in and asked for Brigid, so I pointed her out.’

  Hadn't he just said he'd been too busy to notice? ‘What did this new woman look like?’

  Benjy shrugged. ‘Blonde hair, very slim.’

  Without really needing to, I looked around. His description captured half the women currently in Sapphire. ‘Dressed like all the . . . regulars?’ I pointed to the dance floor which was now filling up.

  ‘Not even close. This woman was wearing jeans.’

  ‘You let people in jeans through the velvet rope?’ I asked MaryAnne.

  She shrugged and pointed to a woman in her early twenties crossing the room in skinny jeans, an off-the-shoulder cream-colored top, and the aura of original sin. ‘Honey, those go for a thousand dollars the pair. Makes it kind of hard to diss them.’

  Bet my mom-jeans would be ‘dissed’ plenty. ‘So, the two of them spoke?’

  ‘Yes. It seemed to me like they’d already met, but didn’t really know each other, if you know what I mean?’ Benjy glanced nervously at MaryAnne.

  I could guess what he was thinking. The more information Benjy gave me, the less it would seem her bartender had been doing his job that night.

  I turned to MaryAnne and whispered. Her eyes narrowed, but she appeared to understand. ‘OK, Maggy, I’m going to do some paperwork. Benjy, call me in the office if she – or you – need anything.’

  I gave her a hug. ‘MaryAnne, thanks so much.’

  ‘I expect to hear every word he has to tell you,’ she murmured in my ear.

  ‘Deal,’ I whispered back. ‘But only if you promise me that you won’t fire him.’

  A hesitation. Our clinch was getting a little long for comfort, though I wasn’t sure in a place like Sapphire anyone would notice. Either they were in their own clinches or negotiating a deal toward doing so.

  ‘Fine.’ She let me go and I watched her leave. No wonder I liked the woman. MaryAnne was Sarah, but with money and charm, instead of piss and vinegar.

  But, back to grilling Benjy. I took a sip of wine.

  He motioned toward my glass. ‘Ms Thorsen, can I freshen that for you?’

  The tide was inexorably ebbing in the balloon-bowl, but given the price, I hesitated.

  Benjy looked toward MaryAnne’s path of departure then back to me with a conspiratorial smile. ‘On the house. For covering my back just now with the boss.’

  No need to hit me in the head with a hammer. Bartenders working for a place like this, I knew, were allowed a certain number of ‘comps’ – drinks they could ‘buy’ their good customers – per night. ‘Thank you, Benjy.’

  He poured me a bit more than an additional inch this time, and I asked him, ‘Could you hear the two women’s conversation?’

  Benjy scrunched his facial features, then returned to ‘normal’ as I’d seen it on him. ‘Something about showing a property, I think. They talked maybe thirty minutes and just before the other woman left, Brigid asked me for a piece of paper so she could write down a lockbox combination.’

  A lockbox – sort of a mini safe – was affixed to the doorknob of a property that was on the market and contained the key for that listing’s front door. It might seem a security risk, akin to putting a key under the welcome mat, but if a stranger doesn’t know the combination, he or she can’t open the lockbox and access the key. Accordingly, the system allowed an owner to provide a listing agency with only one key but still allow any associate who had an interested buyer to use the combination, get the key and show the house.

  Presumably, Kingston Realty had lockboxes on a number of residential and even commercial properties. But which particular one was this? MaryAnne’s was likely the most valuable of the Kingston Realty listings.

  I didn’t like the idea of Brigid Ferndale essentially handing a key to MaryAnne’s – or anyone else’s – house to someone who wasn’t in Sarah’s firm.

  And, since there were no other agents in Sarah’s firm, who was . . . ? ‘Benjy, you’re sure this woman was a blonde?’

  I was thinking Gabriella Atherton, of course. A redhead.

  Another conspiratorial smile from the bartender to the stars. ‘Ms Thorsen, the lighting in Sapphire is set on “kind”, but there are just so many blondes, you notice more the ones who aren’t.’

  I had another thought. Elaine Riordan was blonde and a real estate agent, dilettante or not. ‘Was this other woman really thin? I mean, borderline emaciated?’

  Benjy closed his eyes again. ‘When this lady took off her coat, she seemed more athletic-skinny than diet-
skinny like the women around here. Especially the older ones.’

  I appreciated his candor, but . . . ‘Coat? On Monday night, the temperature was still in the sixties.’

  And considered nippy, perhaps, for Florida, but Wisconsin? In October? People had been wearing shorts and flip-flops on Monday, but this woman wore a coat. Blonde, athletic-thin and a freezy-cat. The description fit Deirdre Doty to a tee.

  ‘Did you tell the sheriff’s deputy about this woman speaking to Brigid?’

  Benjy was stacking glasses. ‘I said she’d been talking to some people, but he didn’t seem to think it was all that important.’

  Because ‘he’ didn’t know Brookhills and quasi-human nature the way I did.

  My pulse quickened. ‘Did you see Brigid Ferndale leave with this woman?’

  ‘Nope, because Brigid had a second meeting.’ He head-gestured toward the dance floor. ‘With her.’

  I scanned the crowd. ‘Which her?’

  ‘The redhead.’

  The redhead. Somebody needed to give this kid a lesson in the clarity produced by linear storytelling.

  I turned back to him. ‘You mean there also was a redhead here Monday night?’

  ‘Yeah, I told you. After the other woman left, Brigid hung out to meet with that chick who owns the real estate company.’

  This time I followed his finger.

  To Gabriella Atherton, gyrating without an apparent care in the middle of Sapphire’s dance floor.

  Chapter Twelve

  Not really a surprise, I thought, as the current, unidentifiable song ended, and Gabriella Atherton disappeared into a crush on the far side of the floor.

  We knew Brigid Ferndale wanted to work for Atherton. Upon further questioning, Benjy told me that after the first woman – presumably TV producer Deirdre Doty – left, Brigid went into the entrance foyer and returned with Atherton. The two had retired to a table and, not twenty minutes after sitting down, Brigid had paid her tab for the one drink she’d actually ordered, collected her handbag and left.

  With Gabriella Atherton? Benjy hadn’t noticed.

  So, was Atherton the last person to see Brigid alive?

  That I didn’t know.

  But Atherton ought to be able to provide a few pieces to the puzzle.

  I wended my way through the growing crowd on the dance floor and then started circling the far tables, searching for her. The strap of my purse was over my left shoulder, with the body of the bag tucked under that elbow. I held my wine glass out front in the opposite hand. My strategy was to protect the purse from pickpockets and my Cakebread Cabernet Sauvignon from the bag, lest it be sent swinging as I squeezed past clumps of seated people.

  I probably looked like a punt-returner securing the football as I dodged the other patrons in a slow-motion, broken-field run.

  ‘Maggy?’

  I turned to see Ward Chitown and Deirdre Doty sitting at a table I’d overlooked.

  ‘Would you care to join us?’

  I didn’t see why not. Maybe Doty could tell me something more. Like confirming what time she’d left Brigid Ferndale and why the sales apprentice had given the TV producer a lockbox combination.

  ‘I’d love to, thanks.’ I chose the chair next to Chitown and set down my glass.

  ‘You’re nearly empty, can I get you another?’

  I looked at the tiny pool of wine number two in the bottom of its glass. Huh. ‘That would be very nice, but it’s the Cakebread Cab.’

  Chitown blinked. ‘However, you are enjoying it, correct?’

  ‘Ward, enjoying it just doesn’t capture the magic.’

  Chitown nodded, waved over a waiter and placed the order for my drink, as well as two boutique bourbons – his straight up with a water chaser and Deirdre’s on the rocks. I knew the bourbons would vie with the price of my wine because while he prefaced his and Deirdre’s request with the word ‘bourbon’, I’d never heard of the distillery or the name of the whiskey itself.

  Deirdre leaned forward over the table. ‘I’m so glad we ran into you, Maggy. I really need someone—’

  ‘Wait, wait,’ Chitown interrupted. ‘First things, first. Maggy, we would love for you to come to the show on Saturday. We think there’s plenty of room at both the Ristorante and slaughterhouse for us to create a small –’ an index finger went up – ‘and I do mean small, studio audience.’

  ‘Including Elaine Riordan?’ I asked.

  ‘A very enthusiastic Elaine Riordan, who will be here any minute. Elaine will have her own moment in the sun,’ Chitown said, ‘as, happily, Deirdre’s been able to put her to work.’

  ‘I have to admit, the woman’s a great source of information,’ Doty said. ‘Not only does she know everything you’d ever want to know – and more – about your town’s history but also who’s who and what’s what in modern-day Brookhills. Elaine’s the one who suggested I talk—’

  But Chitown interrupted. Again. ‘And, Maggy, we’d also like you to be part of our post-production celebration Saturday night here at Sapphire.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful. I’d love to attend.’

  ‘And bring your business partner, too. Sarah, is it?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll tell her.’ I turned to Deirdre Doty. ‘OK, now that your boss has buttered me up like a cob of summer sweetcorn, how can I help the cause?’

  Doty laughed. ‘He’s always one to open with the good news, but in this case I hope that your helping us will help you as well. Two things: first, if the police have released the waiting room under the loading platform, would you allow us to film a backstory package in there to show on the program?’

  ‘Have you spoken to the sheriff?’ I asked.

  ‘Not yet. I wanted to get your permission first.’

  ‘That really would be up to Sarah, since she owns not just our shop, but the entire depot. But so long as Pavlik says yes, then I guess—’

  ‘Wonderful.’ Doty pulled a notebook from the side pocket of her coat, which was hanging over the back of her chair. Apparently the long-sleeve cable-knit sweater she had on kept her warm enough to chance taking off the heavier outer layer.

  Doty scribbled a few words. ‘Second,’ she continued, ‘I need a caterer to provide a meal for the crew and guests on Saturday.’

  ‘We’re on a bit of a shoestring budget,’ Chitown put in, ‘but, if you’re willing, we could pay for your out-of-pockets and give you mentions on the show and in the credits.’

  ‘Product placement?’ I asked. ‘Coffee mugs with our Uncommon Grounds logo everywhere?’

  ‘Just so we don’t find them buried atop the treasure,’ Doty said with a grin.

  ‘That would be tacky.’ I was getting excited about their idea. ‘How about this? I’ll talk to the woman who handles the food side of our operation tomorrow and see what she thinks. How many people are you talking about?’

  ‘We’re still working on that,’ Doty said. ‘Elaine is pulling together a local crew list and also a guest one. Can I have her call you tomorrow?’

  ‘Why don’t you have her call Tien directly? That way, they can work out details without us mucking up the middle.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Doty waited until the waiter, who’d returned with our drinks, set them before us, and then turned to a fresh page in her notebook. ‘And this is Tien . . . ?’

  I took a sip of my wine. ‘Romano.’

  Ward Chitown looked up sharply. ‘Romano? R . . . O . . . M . . . A . . . N . . . O? As in the Ristorante?’

  Oh-oh. I looked at my glass of beguiling Cab. Traitorous grape. ‘Ristorante? Gee, I don’t know. I guess it could be a coincidence, but you should ask Tien.’ Then, in hopes of a diversion and perhaps even catching the two by surprise: ‘Speaking of coincidence, I understand you knew Brigid Ferndale?’

  Chitown, for one, seemed confused by the change of subject. ‘Brigid Ferndale?’ He looked at Deirdre.

  ‘That’s the real estate agent for the Ristorante,’ she said. ‘You remember.’

  ‘Oh, o
f course. The lovely young blonde.’ Now to me. ‘Brigid was kind enough to meet Deirdre on very short notice so we could get access to the property.’ Then back to his producer. ‘Did you invite her to the show, as well? I certainly think this Ms Ferndale has earned it.’

  Aim right between the eyes. ‘I’m sorry to say that you can’t invite Ms Ferndale to anything. She’s dead.’ I gave it a beat. ‘Haven’t you seen the news?’

  ‘No,’ Doty said, her face staring at the tabletop, and her tone hollow. ‘We’ve been in the Ristorante and the slaughterhouse all day, blocking the scenes. Wait a . . .’ Now her head jerked up, and a hand went to her mouth. ‘Don’t tell me the body found in the waiting room was . . .’

  ‘Brigid Ferndale.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Chitown took a mighty slug of his bourbon. ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Deirdre said, looking to and fro between her boss and me. ‘Ward, I thought you discovered the body. You had to have recognized her.’

  Ahh. Chitown was telling his faithful followers he’d discovered the body? Not that I minded so much. God knows, Sarah and I had stumbled over more than our share.

  Chitown swallowed. ‘Well, Deirdre, I may have uh . . . ambiguously stated exactly what—’

  ‘Ward didn’t go all the way into the room where the body lay,’ I told her. ‘Probably all he saw were her legs. Right, Ward?’

  ‘Right,’ he said, favoring me with a full-voltage smile charged with charm and not just a little gratitude. ‘Then Maggy asked me to step out and direct the authorities when they arrived.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Am I interrupting?’

  The voice of Sheriff Jake Pavlik came from above and behind my right shoulder. I twisted to gauge his mood, given I’d neglected to tell him I was going ‘clubbing’ after he’d left me tonight.

  His eyes told me nothing, but he wore the same jeans and dress shirt he’d had on earlier. Over that – my heart be still and our cold spell be blessed – his buttery leather jacket.

  I involuntarily reached out and stroked it, just managing to restrain a moan. That jacket and I had a beautiful thing going.