The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle (16 page)

Few things would have given me greater pleasure than to toss Mr. Entitlement out on his ear, but it wasn't my place. We were short-staffed as it was, and Mom was in charge in Derek's absence. I made a mental note to give her a heads-up about Kolby. “My mom's managing the pub for the moment,” I told him, “so you'll have to negotiate salary with her.”

Kolby's smile slipped slightly, but then he sauntered to a nearby booth and began taking orders. I made a pitcher of margaritas, a Bloody Mary, and a virgin daiquiri for one of Bernie's tables while he was gone, and when he returned to the server station, I said, “I never told you how sorry I am about your dad. Everything was so chaotic that night, with the police and everything, but I'm really sorry. It's got to be rough.”

He looked at me through the fringe of dark blond hair. “That night was rough. Man! I've never been through anything like that. When I found him like that . . . I blew chunks. I'm not ashamed to admit it.” He looked slightly paler.

“How did you manage to find him? I mean, why were you out at the Dumpster, in the rain?” A server's duties didn't take him or her out to the Dumpster, in the normal course of events.

His eyes slid away from mine, but then his mouth took on a sly twist. “Sometimes a man needs a break.”
He mimed holding a marijuana joint between his thumb and forefinger and sucked air noisily between pursed lips. “Know what I mean? I've got some good stuff and I'm willing to share.” He leaned toward me and leered. “I'm going to be a very, very rich man, you know.”

Humanity would go the way of the dodo before I would date Kolby Marsh. “You were out back getting high? Alone?”

“What can I say? The babes find the Kolby-meister irresistible. Just wait until they get a load of me in my new Ferrari California T. It's got a turbocharged V-8, a triple fence diffuser, and a T-top.” He mimed one hand on the steering wheel with his arm resting along an open window. “I've already got one picked out. The color's called ‘Rosso California.' That's red. The salesman is just waiting for me to give him the go-ahead. You can call shotgun now for the first time I take her for a spin.” He winked, picked up his tray, and delivered it to his table.

I hadn't so much as touched his hand, but I felt the urge to wash mine. I did, lathering heavily, and wondering if Kolby was telling the truth. Had he really gone outside for a toke? Entirely possible. I found it harder to believe he'd convinced some girl to go with him in the pouring rain. I was mulling it over when a man's voice said, “Can a guy get some service around here?”

I jerked around, dropping the towel I was using to dry my hands. “Doug! I didn't know you were coming tonight.” He sat on a stool, arms on the bar, grinning
with pleasure at having surprised me. He had ditched his suit jacket and tie, but still wore a white Oxford shirt and slacks as though he'd come from the office.

“And I didn't know you were moonlighting as a bartender.” He smiled. “I'll have an Angel Ale, please.”

As I poured the brew and waited for the head to subside, I told him why I was there. “I can take a shift, too,” he said immediately, “if you guys need me to. Who knows what kind of legal business I could pick up by sliding my card under each stein or pitcher?”

I was touched, and smiled at him gratefully. “That's really kind, Doug. Talk to my mom.” I placed the glass mug in front of him, and declined his twenty. “On me.”

Swiveling so his back was to me, he surveyed the pub and announced, “I like this place. It's got a nice feel. Homey, but funner.” He spun back around.

“I don't think ‘funner' is a word.”

“‘Livelier,' then.”

Playing with synonyms made me think of Al and I wondered how the library event was going. I checked my phone, but there were no calls or texts from him. Maybe I should just cruise by the library to see—? I took a deep breath and made myself believe the event was going swimmingly. I couldn't leave. The crowd noise was increasing, people getting louder as happy hour wore on and they had more to drink. Over Doug's shoulder I saw the door open. Two women strolled in, followed by Lindell Hart. His eyes found mine across the crowd and he smiled. I smiled back. Doug turned to see whom I was smiling at.

“That's the new detective, right?”

“Right.”

Hart had threaded his way through the crowd to us by then, and he shook hands with Doug. “Good to see you again, Elvaston.” The two men presented a contrast. Doug, blond, handsome, shorter, and more compact. Hart, with his curly brown hair, taller and lankier, wearing jeans and a University of Georgia T-shirt. I felt a little awkward, seeing them together like this, but they didn't display any self-consciousness. Maybe Hart hadn't heard that Doug and I used to be a thing. Doug knew I was dating Hart because I'd told him so, even before it was true, not wanting to go to his wedding without a date.

Doug's brow crinkled and I knew he was trying to figure out where they'd met.

“The wedding,” Hart supplied. “Sorry it didn't work out, man.”

I liked that he tackled the tough subject casually, brought it out in the open as though it was nothing to be ashamed of. Which, of course, it wasn't. Not for anyone besides Madison.

Doug gave a rueful smile. “Better before the rings get put on than after, right? I hope you enjoyed the reception at least. My folks said it was a great party, even without a bride and groom. I heard the band's lead singer got drunk and fell off the stage—broke his thumb.”

Hart took a swallow from the beer I'd poured him. “I didn't go. My date had to drive you to Denver, and I didn't think it'd be much fun on my own.”

“That's right. You were there with Amy-Faye. Her plus one.”

Was the look he was giving Hart an assessing one? I ducked away from the conversation to refill drinks along the bar and to take an order for the pub's signature burger from the middle-aged man at the far end. When I drifted back to Hart and Doug, they were deep into a discussion of the upcoming college football season, and they hardly acknowledged my return. A tad miffed, I wiped down the bar and collected dirty mugs, offering my thoughts on the Buffs' chances as I worked. Finally, some friends hailed Doug from a table and he excused himself to join them.

“Nice guy,” Hart observed as Doug left.

“We've been friends a long time,” I said.

“So I've heard.” His eyes smiled at me. I must have looked a little flustered, because he added, “It's a small town.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

He began to relate a story about a traffic stop earlier in the day that was complicated when the pet ferret in the car bit the officer giving its owner a ticket. I laughed and reciprocated by telling him about letting Al run the library fund-raiser on his own. “It's hard for me to let go,” I confessed. “I guess I'm something of a control freak.”

“Probably a good trait for an event organizer,” Hart said. He hesitated, and then asked, “How's your brother holding up?”

“As well as can be expected, I guess,” I said, appreciating that he was willing to skirt the edge of our “don't discuss the case” agreement by asking about Derek.

“I've heard good things about his lawyer. Word is she doesn't back down,” he said.

“I got that feeling from her.”

Before the conversation could veer to more neutral topics, my mom pushed through the kitchen's swinging door and headed toward us. Before the pub ever opened, Derek had gotten my folks orange shirts like the uniform shirt I wore. Mom's XXXL shirt made her look like a vast pumpkin, and had the phrase S
HE
W
HO
M
UST
B
E
O
BEYED
printed where her name should have gone. Little did Derek know when he did that as a joke that it would soon be true; as far as the pub went, Mom was the big boss now.

I introduced Hart to Mom and they chatted for a minute before Mom turned to me. “I've been told that this place hasn't been cleaned since you ran off that janitor three days ago. Not that I blame you after what he did to the grand opening. And he might have murdered Gordon, after all. Not a desirable employee at all.”

I resisted the urge to look at Hart when she said that. I was half hoping he'd say whether or not he'd found Foster and what the janitor had said, but he remained silent.

Mom asked, “Do you have any recommendations for a service I could hire?”

I pulled out my phone and read her off the numbers of two companies I had used in the past. She didn't need to write them down; she'd always been able to memorize numbers.

“In the meantime, I'm afraid . . .” She trailed off and looked at me meaningfully. It took me a moment to catch on.

“Mo-om! You know I hate cleaning toilets.”

“It's for your brother, dear,” she said. “Just for tonight, until I can hire someone new.”

“Fine,” I grumbled, “but I'm not touching the men's room. Dad can do that.”

Mom chuckled, the sound rich and cheering, and agreed that Derek or Dad could be responsible for the men's room. “The kitchen staff and I have got a handle on the kitchen,” she said. “Once I explained to them that they wouldn't have jobs if the health inspector closed us down, they pulled out the Lysol and elbow grease.” With a triumphant smile, she made her way back to the kitchen.

Hart hid a smile in his almost-empty beer glass and refused a second when I offered. “Feisty woman, your mom. I see where you get it.”

“Hmph.”

We chatted in between my bartending duties for another fifteen minutes and then he stood to go. He surprised me by leaning across the bar to kiss me lightly on the lips. “It feels weird to leave you a tip,” he murmured, “so maybe this will do instead.”

“Much better than twenty percent of nothing,” I agreed, tingling with the effervescence that bubbled up in me every time he touched me.

I watched him go until the door closed behind him, and then I looked around. I realized with a start that Doug was gone and I hadn't even noticed when he'd left.

M
y Thursday morning started with a breakfast meeting I'd organized for the Chamber of Commerce. Accordingly, it was after ten by the time I got to the office. Approaching the French doors from the garden, I noticed blobs of color seemingly floating around the office. I picked up my pace, puzzled and a little concerned. I opened the door on a forest of balloons trailing long ribbons. One drifted out and up before I could snag it.

“Close the door!” Al's voice came from behind a wall of latex globes.

I closed it. A strange hissing came from the direction of his desk. “What on earth—?”

I batted the balloons out of my path and saw Al, operating the lever on a helium tank. “Gilda at Balloons-r-Us had a family emergency,” he said, tying off the inflated balloon and affixing a yellow ribbon tail. “She apologized in about eight languages and said we could have the helium tank for the day. No charge for any of this.” He gestured widely and the balloons floated across the reception area like colorful ghosts. “I think Timothy will like them, don't you?”

“What seven-year-old doesn't like balloons?” I asked. “How'd it go last night?”

“Perfectly.”

“Flawlessly?”

“Faultlessly.”

I beamed at him. “Of course it did. I never had a moment's doubt.”

“Ha! I know you checked your phone at least eight times, and probably got in the van twice to come over to the library.” He smiled to show that he didn't mind that I had been the eensy-teensiest bit worried.

“I did not get in the van,” I said with great dignity. “I served beers, blended margaritas, and cleaned toilets with nary a thought for you.”

He snorted, but then asked, “Toilets?”

I explained.

“You're a good sister.”

The sincerity in his voice touched me. “I try to be,” I said, feeling awkward.

“I'm pretty sure my sister would rather visit me in jail than clean a toilet on my behalf,” he said cheerfully, clearly bearing his sister no ill will. “In fact, I don't know if she knows how to clean a toilet. We shared a bathroom growing up, and the best thing about moving into the dorms was no more smelly, pink, powdery girlie stuff in my bathroom.”

“Just good old man-stink and mildew, right?”

“Right.” He grinned.

There was a knock on the door. I waded through the balloons to open it, surprised to find Courtney Spainhower, Derek's lawyer, standing on the patio.

“I was getting a cup of tea at the Divine Herb”—she held up the imprinted cup as proof—“and thought I'd
stop by to see if you had time to talk about your brother's case.”

“Sure. Come in.”

She cast a curious look at the balloons and I explained about the birthday party we were responsible for this evening.

“I guess you've got to be able to tackle anything, if you're an event organizer,” she said, considering.

“Pretty much. Livestock, feuding relatives, nudity, food fights, incontinence, fires, floods . . . I've dealt with it all.”

“I can see what Derek means when he says you're the most amazingly competent person he's ever known.”

“He said that? Derek? My brother?”

Courtney laughed. “Cross my heart.”

My second warm fuzzy of the day.

I introduced her to Al, who looked smitten with her dark beauty, and led her into my office. “Nice,” she said, gazing at my table desk, whiteboard, window, lemon walls, and green chairs. “Refreshing. I have an office smaller than my pantry at home, with file folders piled to head height against one wall and my desk against the other with about eight inches to push my chair back. If I gain five pounds, I won't be able to squeeze into my chair.”

I laughed and invited her to sit in one of the grass green club chairs. I joined her, rather than sitting at my desk. Pulling a bulky accordion folder from her briefcase, she opened it and spread some papers on the
table between us. “You know, Amy-Faye—may I call you Amy-Faye?”

“Of course.”

She smiled. “The police actually did your brother a favor by arresting him, I think.”

My brows soared. “Really? How so?”

“The lead detective, Detective Hart, has been very forthcoming with discovery, turning over documents and reports to the defense. That's me and Derek.”

I knew what discovery was from reading so many legal thrillers. What I gathered from those books was that the police and prosecution usually tried to delay turning over documents the law required them to provide to the defense, or inundate the defense with so much extraneous paper that the defense team had to waste thousands of billable hours sorting through coal to get at the diamond.

“If he hadn't arrested Derek, I wouldn't have access yet to all this”—she waved a hand over the piles of paper—“that lets me know who the police have talked to, who had what alibis, what investigatory paths they wandered down, et cetera. If you have time, I thought we could go over some of it together, since you've also done a fair amount of investigating on Derek's behalf.”

“Sure.” I felt warmly toward Hart for playing fair with my brother's case and turning over the documents. I was eager to dive into his reports and find out the sorts of things it took a badge to discover. Telling Al to handle anything that came up, and refilling my coffee cup, I kicked off my shoes and plunged in, sitting on the floor to have easier access to all the documents.
Without hesitation, Courtney joined me, sitting cross-legged.

I left the autopsy report to Courtney (since I'd already had access, via Maud, to a purloined copy) and started in on the witness statements. There were at least a couple of hundred, I figured, riffling through them—most of the grand opening attendees. I yanked the ones I was most interested in: all of Gordon's relatives (Susan and Kolby Marsh, and Angie and Gene Dreesen), the WOSC contingent, and Foster. They were the ones I knew had a serious grudge against Gordon, or who benefited financially from his death. After a second's thought, I pulled Derek's statement, too.

Courtney produced a couple of legal pads and I took one to draw a timeline on. I read through the witness reports with an eye for who had been where when. Motive is all well and good, but opportunity is equally if not more important. I must have picked that piece of wisdom up from a police procedural. I decided to tune into my inner J. P. Beaumont, Jance's Seattle cop, as I read.

No one admitted to being on the roof at any point in the evening. Surprise. Angie Dreesen and Kolby and Foster were at the pub by six o'clock for the preparty. The WOSCers arrived right at seven—I'd seen them myself. The two whose names I didn't know turned out to be Sally Braverman from Fruita and Veronica Kuykendal from a Denver suburb. I put them all on my timeline. So far, so good. From there, everything got hazy. From what I could tell, no one could produce any
witnesses who could account for every minute of their time during the party. People mingled, went to the bathroom or the bar, and generally behaved the way people do at a party that's not a sit-down dinner. Shoot.

Courtney finished with the autopsy report and helped herself to a couple of the witness interviews as I tackled Foster's statement. It was unilluminating. His last name was Quinlan and he'd been at the pub since midday, prepping for the opening. His definition of “prepping” had been different from mine, I knew now. After the party started, people reported seeing glimpses of “a janitor” but mostly couldn't nail down the times. A kitchen worker mentioned seeing him by the Dumpster shortly before seven o'clock. In and of itself, that didn't mean much because he was probably hauling trash out to the Dumpsters on and off all day and evening, when he wasn't blowing up microwaves. On the other hand, maybe he was checking on Gordon, assuring himself that he hadn't survived the fall. Stapled to his statement was my statement about our encounter, the log of a call from his wife reporting him missing when he didn't come home Sunday night after our talk in Elysium's kitchen, and an officer's write-up of finding him intoxicated in the Lost Alice Lake gazebo at noon on Monday. I made a note to talk to Foster's wife.

One or another of the WOSCers claimed to have been with Susan Marsh all evening. Except for a five – minute bathroom visit, she hadn't left the corner table until the fire alarm sounded. No one had seen her
during the evacuation, but that was after the ME's time of death, so it probably didn't matter.

Courtney interrupted me. “I kind of liked Gene Dreesen for it; he and his wife, Gordon's stepsister, Angie, went off the rails when their daughter died, saying Gordon was culpable, accusing him of driving the car when it crashed, and basically making out like he was responsible for everything from ISIS to Ebola. Additionally, Gene's accounting firm used to have a lock on all of GTM's business—thousands of billable hours a year—but Gordon yanked it all away after Gene and Angie filed a civil suit against him related to Kinleigh's death. Left Gene with a bunch of egg on his face in front of his partners. But he's got an alibi.” She waved the page. “He got to the pub around seven thirty, after the window the ME established for Gordon's death. There's a note here that says his alibi checked out: He left his office late and stopped to help a motorist with a flat tire. The police talked to the driver, who corroborates the times.” She set the page down with a disappointed look.

“Angie's time isn't so closely accounted for,” I said, riffling through the pile until I found the right statement. “She was gone for twenty or thirty minutes soon after the party started; she said she was having ‘digestive system difficulties'—you suppose that means diarrhea?—and had been in the second-floor bathroom.”

“Maybe she's anorexic.” Courtney mimed putting a finger down her throat.

“She's tiny,” I agreed. “There's no way she could
have thrown Gordon from the roof by herself. How about if she had an accomplice who wasn't her hubby?”

Courtney scrunched her face doubtfully. “Like who?”

I shrugged, not having a suspect in mind. I read farther down the form. “Anyway, she rejoined the party before her husband arrived—several witnesses, including my folks, corroborate that—and they left together. I saw them get into the car myself.”

Courtney had been only half listening to my last remarks and now read from another document, rectangular reading glasses perched on the end of her elegant nose. “The police haven't found the weapon, but they describe it as metal, approximately one half inch to one inch in diameter.”

I circled my thumb and forefinger to what I thought was an inch and then shrank the circle to half an inch. “So, a golf club shaft,” I said, thinking of the clubs in Gordon's office. Surely the police would have tested them.

“Or a tire iron, or a cane.”

“An umbrella? There were lots of them around Friday night.”

Courtney considered, but then shook her head. “I wouldn't think so. Too light, right? You could poke someone's eye out, but I wouldn't think you could knock someone unconscious with one.”

“How about a mop handle!” I said.

Courtney caught on immediately. “The janitor. Do you have his statement?”

I passed it to her with a comment about how much
Foster had hated Gordon. She read it with a speed I envied;
Moby-Dick
wouldn't have been such a slog if I could have read that quickly. The skill had probably served her well in law school.

“Hmm, he certainly bears further scrutiny. I'll have my investigator look at him more closely—background, work history, financials.”

We worked side by side for another hour, and my timeline still had more bare spots than a monk's head when Al rapped on the door and brought in two bags from the Divine Herb. The room filled with the mouthwatering smells of pastrami and chicken. “Thought you might be hungry,” he said, his adoring eyes on Courtney.

“You are so kind.” She took a bag with a smile and I thought he was going to melt into a puddle.

“Ahem.” I cleared my throat and he all but tossed me the other bag without taking his eyes off Courtney. “Don't you have class this afternoon?” I reminded him.

He started. “Accounting. Oh, right. I'm going to be late. Nice to meet you, Miss Spainhower.” He bolted.

“Any messages from this morning?” I called after him.

“Nothing important.” The door slammed.

Courtney was already back into the documents. She sat cross-legged on the floor, munching her sandwich
while she read. Tucking a comma of dark hair behind her ear, she said, “I like the son for it.” She looked up. “He's inheriting millions and Doretta, my investigator, says there was no love lost between them. Kolby's classmates and friends all say he hated his dad for leaving him and his mom, talked about what he'd do with the money when it was his, and was generally a weaselly person, not above stealing from friends or cheating on tests. People at the college don't seem to like him much.”

I told Courtney about Kolby maybe accidentally-on-purpose running Gordon down when he was sixteen. While she mulled that over, I pulled his statement from my pile and scanned it quickly. He hadn't mentioned marijuana to the police as his reason for being outside, or the girl he'd tried to tell me he'd been smoking dope with. I summarized what he'd said for Courtney. “He told me he went out to smoke a joint with some girl, but he told the police he was taking a trash bag out. Ha! Not likely. He barely did his own job and I can't see him volunteering to help the kitchen staff.”

Courtney got an alert expression, as though something I'd said had struck a chord. “Marijuana, marijuana,” she muttered, flipping through some papers still in her briefcase. “Here it is.”

The page she showed me was a line drawing of the Elysium Brewing rooftop with dimensions annotated and little squares drawn to represent the shed, the planters, and the AC unit. Neat numbers freckled the page and corresponded with a list attached on the second page. Studying it, I realized it listed all the items
found and marked at the scene by the crime scene technicians. Cigarette butts made up at least half the list.