Sleuthing for the Weekend

by Jennifer L. Hart

  "Mac doesn't need an in." I put my hands on my hips, even as my inner voice screamed that it couldn't hurt. "She's got the grades, the brains."

  He cast me a disbelieving look. "You and I both know that might not be enough. It's one evening. You hobnob, rub elbows, and we can set Mac up for success. Then you can go back to life as usual. Just a few hours to help lay the groundwork for her future. Don't you want to do everything in your power to make sure she thrives?"

  "You're playing dirty." As Brett always did to get his way. What he was asking sounded so reasonable, and yet I had the distinct feeling I would regret it.

  "She's my kid. I'll do whatever it takes to help her. Even manipulate her mother."

  I pointed a finger at him. "Let's get one thing straight. You don't have the power to manipulate me anymore."

  He held up his hands and waited.

  I huffed out a breath. "Fine. What's the occasion?"

  "It's the Sugar Ball, to celebrate the harvest. Semiformal attire." A slow grin spread across his face. "I remember you loved it, the one time I took you."

  I had. It had been the first time I'd ever been to a party of that scale. People dressed to the nines, candles glittering around the massive dining room, a string quartet. It had been an amazing night.

  "Mac will love it." I chucked a thumb toward the door and muttered, "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to see a man about a murder."

  "Never a dull moment." Brett tossed me a wink as he proceeded out of the apartment.

  Traffic was light, post lunch but before the five o'clock snarl, and I made it to Len's office in twenty minutes. After parking Helga across the street, I turned up the collar on my trench coat and dashed up the concrete steps into the front entrance. The door was unlocked, the light in the hallway left on in welcome.

  The reception area sat empty, though the screen on the desktop was set to the flying-through-space screensaver indicating recent use. The sound of Len's soft Southern gentleman's drawl rolled out from the inner office as well as the echo of whomever he had on speaker. I hung my shoulder bag and jacket up on the old-fashioned hat rack poised by the door and then headed to the coffee pot.

  Coffee in hand, I moved to the open office door, rapping my knuckles gently so as not to startle my employer. Len's office smelled of leather books, lemon floor cleaner, and mothballs, the combination not at all unpleasant. Much like the man himself, the space was well preserved, as deceptive from the outside as it was sharp on the inside.

  Len's bright blue gaze fixed on me. He waved me in even as he addressed the caller. "You have no evidence or witnesses."

  "We have motive," the nasal voice resounded from the speaker. "A messy and complicated divorce. And there's the financial incentive."

  "This so-called treasure?" Len asked. He picked up a pen and slid a blank yellow legal pad over, wrote something down. "Good luck proving it exists."

  "People have killed for less. A failing bar, a failing marriage, death threats. It's enough to have him arrested."

  "But not convicted. No jury will toss O'Flannigan behind bars on so little." Len dropped the pen, reversed the pad, and slid it across his massive desk.

  I strode forward and read the hasty scrawled message. He hired you?

  I shook my head and held the hand not clutching the coffee mug up, rubbing my fingers together in the universal sign for money. Shook my head again so he knew I hadn't been paid.

  Len nodded once even as the man on the other end of the line cautioned, "Juries can be fickle. Mr. O'Flannigan has terrible staff turnover, which tells me he isn't a likeable guy."

  I snagged another black pen from Len's organizer and wrote, Captain is in business with him, business tanking.

  "Last time I checked, that isn't a crime. The man has a business, no history of violence. Bail will be less than you burn through in whiskey, Thompson."

  Thompson, I knew that name. The district attorney was calling Len personally? That told me the case was high profile.

  At my raised eyebrows, Len took up his pen again. Vic was sister of congressman. Congressman pushing DA to arrest O'Flannigan. Bad blood, bad timing.

  What had my father gotten himself involved in?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "Contrary to popular opinion, money doesn't set people apart. It just makes the lines between them a little thicker." From The Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living, an unpublished manuscript by Albert Taylor, PI

  "The victim was the sister of a congressman?" I asked when Len hung up with the DA.

  He nodded and removed his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. "It's why I cut my trip short. Michael O'Flannigan won't have an easy time of it. The term railroaded would apply. Imagine my surprise when my new client informed me that my PI—who operates under my investigative license—was already on the case."

  "I wasn't moonlighting or anything," I explained to Len. "Asking a few questions was a favor to my father."

  "He's in deep?" Len raised one of his abnormally busy salt-and-pepper eyebrows.

  "Way over his head. His house is on the line. Even so, I was about to drop the investigation like a bad habit after the murder when I heard he'd hired you."

  Len nodded, accepting my explanation at face value. "What have you found out?"

  "Not much more than you so far. I didn't even know she was related to either of the O'Flannigans until after she turned up dead."

  "You discovered the body?"

  I winced. "Along with Daniel O'Flannigan, yes."

  "The medical examiner says her throat was cut from behind. What does that tell you?" Len's eyes were shrewd.

  "She knew her killer." I'd already suspected as much because of the locked office door. "He took her by surprise."

  "He?" Len tilted his head.

  "Just a theory. Because it was the office. The ladies' room was directly across the hall. If the killer was a woman, she could have confronted her in there."

  Len nodded. "What were your impressions of Lois O'Flannigan?"

  "Warm, friendly, what you would expect from a hostess."

  "That's not helpful for our purposes." Len leaned back in the massive executive armchair that practically swallowed his shrunken form. "The vic was likeable and connected. Her husband isn't. He also contended the divorce, throwing up all sorts of roadblocks. Individually it doesn't mean much, but the DA is out for blood."

  "You said Lois was related to a congressman?"

  Len nodded. "Congressman Alan Whitmore. I need suspects. The more the better. Find out if she was seeing anyone, who she hung out with outside of work. Dig up whatever you can."

  I nodded. "Will do. One other thing. Hunter Black knows I'm investigating this."

  Len was too much of a gentleman to cuss in front of a lady, but I could tell by his expression that he wanted to. "First your father and now your boyfriend. Are you too entrenched in this case?"

  "I can keep my distance, get around Hunter." Even if I had to handcuff him to his bed.

  Len's bright blue gaze assessed me. "This is unlike any case you've investigated to date. High stakes and lots of moving parts. You're going to be looking into how to discredit this woman, sully her reputation. Promise to tell me if you get in over your head."

  "I will." While I didn't relish the idea of dragging poor Lois's name through the mud, I'd been a private investigator long enough to know that everybody kept secrets they didn't want revealed. And while it was cold comfort, Lois didn't need her pristine reputation anymore. "For what it's worth, I think Michael O'Flannigan was using me to add credence to the whole lost treasure angle. It seems like too much of a coincidence that he sent me there the same night his ex-wife was murdered."

  Len nodded thoughtfully. "I'll be sure to ask him when I see him."

  "Are you going to talk to him now? I'll give you a ride."

  "No. There's not much more I can do for him until the police bring formal charges. The DA will be meticulous about this. They don't want to arrest Michael only to h
ave him make bail an hour later. They'll wait until they have something solid. I need you to help me find other suspects well in advance of his arrest."

  I took a steadying breath. "Do you think he killed her?"

  Len's smile was a little sad. "It doesn't matter what I think. I have to put together the best defense I can for him. Everyone has the right to a fair trial. Go find me something I can use."

  I nodded and then retrieved my belongings from the hat rack before hitting the computer and forwarding the file Len had compiled on Michael and Lois O'Flannigan to my cell.

  Back inside Helga, I opened the attachment and skimmed the contents. Lois and Michael O'Flannigan had been childhood sweethearts. Married fresh out of high school, Michael had served one tour in the Navy, presumably where he'd met Reg Taylor, aka the Captain. Both men had been stationed in Norfolk at the same time, though Lois had remained in Boston to look after an ailing mother. After his honorable discharge, he and Lois had gone right into running O'Flannigans, the family's business. The bar had been profitable in the late eighties through the early 2000s, but the great recession had taken its toll on the place and, reading between the lines, the marriage as well.

  In 2008, after the death of her mother, Lois had taken classes at the local community college, earning her degree as a CPA in 2012. While she still did all the bookkeeping for the bar, she'd also worked from home as a local tax preparer. Daniel O'Flannigan, the much younger brother, had worked at O'Flannigans as the manager. That had lasted for three years and six months before Daniel had quit. The notes didn't say why, though I was betting The Shipping Lane had opened around the same time.

  Lois and Michael had been DINKS—dual income, no kids—with much of Lois's accounting income getting funneled back into the failing pub. In spite of the influx of capital, the pub stagnated. In 2016, Lois had moved out of their home and filed for divorce, taking the money that had been keeping the sinking ship afloat with her.

  I stared out through the rain-spattered windshield. So, 2016 was right around the time the Captain had been forced into retirement. Michael needed money. Reg Taylor had been hunting for a way to bulk up his pension. One problem—Lois was the money manager. Without her, neither the Captain nor Michael knew the first thing about running a profitable bar.

  Obviously, Daniel had. The Shipping Lane's success as proof of that. I turned the key, relishing the sound of the Hellcat purring to life. I wanted to speak with the younger O'Flannigan now more than ever and get his side of the story. Time to pay him another visit.

  When I pulled up in front of Daniel's home address, a three-story Victorian with gingerbread trim, there were no signs of life. While the place looked a little rough around the edges—peeling paint on the shutters and crooked front steps—the roof looked new, the hedges were manicured. It had the feeling of a fixer upper in progress, at least from here. There was no name on the mailbox, but the street number matched the one on his tax records.

  I got out and strode across the street, up the wooden steps, and onto the wrap around porch. I rang the bell then scurried back down the steps in case a face appeared at one of the upper-story windows checking to see who it was. Call me crazy, but if my former sister-in-law had been murdered in my office less than a day ago, I'd check for a familiar car before answering the door. No such luck. I trotted back to the porch, rang the bell again. I heard it chiming internally in eight successive notes. There was no other sound. I pressed my ear to the door. No footsteps, no barking, no signs of habitation.

  I returned to the car and moved it up a few spaces on the opposite side of the street. Then I pulled out my cell phone to text Mac. You'll never guess what I'm doing.

  A minute passed, and then her reply came. Is this one of those things that will scar me for life?

  I'm casing a joint!!! I wrote back, adding several sunglasses-wearing emojis to emphasize my badassery.

  Another minute and the phone pinged. To rob?

  No. Why would she think that?

  It only counts as "casing a joint" if you're going to rob it.

  Does not.

  Does too…oh never mind. Did you get the files I sent you about Under Irish Skirts?

  I'd forgotten all about that. Checking my inbox, I saw that between the spam for psychic hotlines and discount Canadian medications, I did have a file with a digital paperclip from Mac. Since I had time to kill, why not get as much background on Daniel O'Flannigan and his nearest and dearest as I could? Between Lois's body being found in his bar and the fact that she'd gone to work for him after leaving his older brother, he was my number-one suspect. Well, outside of Michael, of course. But it was on the police and the DA to build a case against the elder O'Flannigan. Len wanted me to muddy the waters, to find the three musts for other suspects—means, motive, and opportunity. Something about Daniel made my Spidey senses tingle. Yes. I'll go over them while I continue to CASE THIS JOINT.

  Just remember, if you get arrested, I'll have to ask Grams for bail.

  You wouldn't.

  Think of the scene she'd make. Crying with laughter emoji.

  I shuddered and then opened the attachment.

  Under Irish Skirts or, as they were known online, #UIS was a garage band that had been making the rounds off and on for the better part of a decade. Daniel O'Flannigan had not been an original member of the band. He'd first played with them five years earlier at his family's bar, O'Flannigans.

  Hmmm. I tapped my chin. That was about the same time that Daniel had taken over for Lois as manager of O'Flannigans.

  The first page was some basic facts on Daniel. Age, forty-six, graduate of Boston College where he'd majored in marketing. Worked for a few start-ups and then freelanced before taking over O'Flannigans' management position. Though he'd brought live music and a more authentic atmosphere to the family pub, O'Flannigans' downward spiral had continued under his care. UIS had played at O'Flannigans regularly up until his departure.

  He was recently divorced and had a seven-year-old daughter he shared joint custody of with her mother.

  The rest was similar to the research Len had cobbled together, about his opening The Shipping Lane and the band's defection to the new pub.

  So which came first—Daniel as part of the band or UIS's gig at the then respectable O'Flannigans?

  I glanced up, saw the street was clear, and then turned the page. There was a photo of Mr. Buzz Cut, aka the drummer. It was a publicity shot taken at an angle from below of him sitting at his drums, sweat beaded at his temples, with red fog surrounding him in a dreamlike haze. His name was Cliff Rodgers, age forty-eight. I'd been right about his physical fitness. He was a CrossFit junkie, at least according to his social media page. His day job was as a personal trainer out of a local gym. He'd been a member of UIS for three years. His Facebook status was listed as in a relationship, though it didn't say who with. I tried picturing him with Lois, but the image wouldn't gel.

  The last member, the solemn-faced fiddler, was the only original member of the band. Elijah Hawthorn, age thirty-three. An MIT dropout whose day job was working tech repair at a major electronics store. Apparently, he also wrote the original songs, like "The Lost Treasure," for the band. Mac had added that his social media presence was "just sad." No relationships. Though he did pay a hefty monthly fee to a dating service.

  Okay, so three guys who'd been in the bar when Lois was killed. Three guys she'd known for a while who might have had a reason to want her dead. But all three had been up on stage and not covered with blood in the moments surrounding her death.

  There was one other suspect I should investigate but didn't want to. The Captain, who worked with her husband, who had put the money into her ex's bar after she'd withdrawn her fiscal support. Bile churned in my stomach. The Captain knew I was going to The Shipping Lane that night, had sent me there. Sure, I'd called him cold-blooded on more than one occasion, but there was a difference between being a people person and being capable of repeatedly stabbing an innocent woman.
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  Wasn't there?

  * * *

  Gloaming mist had set in, casting the street in an ethereal light. My left butt cheek had fallen asleep by the time Daniel O'Flannigan arrived home. He parked a silver Audi A6 in his driveway, his hair disheveled, lines of strain around his eyes. I saw him search quickly up and down the street as though he were scanning for a possible threat. All the telltale signs of nerves. But was his anxiety the garden variety someone-I-knew-was-just-killed sort, or did he have a reason to be afraid?

  He opened the rear door and reached inside. I popped my own door, ready to pounce. A moment later he emerged with a pixie-like blonde cherub in his arms. I hesitated. Should I confront a man about a grisly murder in front of his child? On the one hand it might help. Finding the body had altered my reasons for questioning him, but he'd struck me as a closed-mouth sort. If he was distracted caring for his daughter, he might spill some detail I could use.

  In that moment I hated myself for thinking along those lines. Too jaded, even for the world weary and less optimistic Mackenzie Elizabeth Taylor.

  While I was making up my mind to move on down the list, he had already scrambled up the porch steps and closed the two of them inside.

  Cliff Rodgers lived way the hell out in the suburbs. By the time I drove out to his place, it would be way too late to come across as a casual social call. Easier to get up early and attend one of his fitness-in-the-park classes. Maybe I could even drag Agnes, pay her back for the hot yoga. Elijah Hawthorn lived with his mother, and if she was anything like my mother or Nona, she'd probably horn in on our Q&A session. Again, simpler and more casual to stop by his place of employment. I decided instead to swing past the house Lois had shared with Michael since it was only a few miles away.

  Helga prowled through the Boston streets, a toothsome feline hunting her prey. Being behind the wheel of the Hellcat gave me the illusion of being both protected and strong. I thought as I drove, thought about, of all things, the stupid treasure. Michael O'Flannigan seemed convinced it was real. His brother's band headlined a song about lost treasure. Irish were, by nature, a superstitious and imaginative people. My Nana Taylor was the type to go out of her way to avoid black cats and sprinkle salt on the thresholds to ward off evil. Funny how so many of the supposed protections from the supernatural were common household items.