In the Drink (30 page)

After that I don't remember anything except the explosion of stars and lights, followed by a brief but all-encompassing darkness that was rapidly replaced with a knifelike, searing pain.

It was Friday night, and I was seated at my dining room table with Cora, Joe, Frank, Mal, and Duncan. Under any other circumstances, it might have been a fun gathering of good friends, but the faces of everyone around the table were glum and all too serious.

My left leg, which was in a cast that went from my foot up to my knee, was throbbing with pain. There was a little red light in the periphery of my vision—a synesthetic light—and with every pulse of my heartbeat it turned on, then off, on, then off.

“Are you okay, Mack?” Joe asked, giving me a concerned look.

I nodded. “I'm fine. The leg is just throbbing a bit.”

Duncan, who was seated next to me, scooted his chair back and said, “Put your leg up on my lap. It will feel better if you elevate it.”

I used my good leg to scoot my own chair back and turn it toward him. Then, with his help, I managed to get my leg up and position it in his lap. It did ease the throbbing some and I leaned back in my chair with a sigh of relief. “Thanks. That is better,” I told him.

Cora, who had taken on the role of nursemaid over the past two days, glanced at her watch, frowned, and then hopped up from the table. “It's time for one of your pain pills,” she said.

While she went to fetch my medicine, Frank said, “Good thing you only broke the bones in your lower leg. Breaking that big old femur bone is way worse.”

Joe nodded. “Yeah, I broke my femur years ago in a skiing accident and I can tell you, it was no picnic. Good thing I did it when I was young, though. It's the kiss of death when it happens to old guys like us.”

The mention of death made everyone at the table wince.

“Sorry,” Joe said, realizing what he'd done.

Cora returned and handed me a pill, which I swallowed down with the water I had on the table. “Thanks,” I said.

Cora settled back in her seat, and for the next few minutes an awkward silence hovered over the table.

When I couldn't stand it any longer, I said, “I'm so sorry I let you guys down.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Mal said. “You didn't let anyone down. You are not responsible for what happened, Mack, any more than you'll be responsible for what may happen. Don't let this guy get to you that way.”

The others all nodded and murmured their agreement with this statement.

While I appreciated their support, I didn't agree with them. “I should have figured out those clues sooner than I did.”

Everyone started to object at the same time and as the clamor of their voices became an undecipherable jumble of noise and synesthetic responses, I held up a hand to stop them. “Let's move on,” I said when they quieted. “We need to figure out what to do from here on out. Should we warn the others?”

“You can't protect everyone you know,” Duncan said. “And if another strike occurs, we have no way of knowing who will be targeted.”

“I realize that,” I said, “but I think it's only fair to give them a heads-up. At least then they can be more careful.”

“And if they are, and the letter writer is watching, don't you think it will be obvious that you've told them?” Joe said. “That alone may trigger an attack.”

“I think Joe is right,” Duncan said. “As it is we had to work hard to spin your involvement in the Gruber investigation so that it didn't look like you were working for the police.”

“Little good it did me,” I grumbled. “I'm still fodder for the news and that's likely to only fan the letter writer's flames.”

Despite efforts to keep my involvement in the case under wraps, too many people knew about my encounter with Marie Hermann, and the reporters had run with it. Clay Sanders had latched on to it like a rattlesnake, injecting his story with just enough venom to make life painful for me once again. In the paper yesterday, he had an article about the crime-solving savant barkeep that had used her “special skill” to solve a twelve-year-old murder. He hadn't gone into exactly what my special skill was, mainly because he didn't know. But he had spun the story in a way that made the police look bad, writing about how a not-so-ordinary citizen had solved a crime that the police were too bumbling to figure out on their own. The end result of that was I once again persona non grata with the department.

The upside of this was that business in the bar was teeming. The downside was that I was once again forced into hiding. This time it was a little easier, since negotiating the stairs to my apartment was quite the challenge, thanks to my cast and crutches.

Heaven knows what the press and others would have thought and speculated if they knew about the other situation. My frustration with the letter writer had reached its peak. And I was scared about what might happen next. Duncan had gone to the Public Market on Thursday while I was still in the hospital and had questioned all of the various shop owners and employees, all of it unofficial and off the record. But either no one there had been tagged by the letter writer and I had the answer wrong yet again, or they were too intimidated by Duncan's questioning to admit to it. Given that the prior recipients had received instructions to destroy the contents of the envelopes once the deadline had passed, it probably wouldn't make a difference. But now I would never know.

I felt as if I had the sword of Damocles hanging over my head, ready to drop. I was seriously considering heading to the Public Market myself tomorrow to see if I could get the answers Duncan didn't. I knew Duncan wouldn't approve, so I hadn't mentioned the idea to him yet, and had more or less made up my mind that I wasn't going to.

My cell phone rang, and when I saw that it was the main bar number, I answered it.

“This is Mack.”

“Hey, Mack, it's Billy. I just wanted to let you know that Gary hasn't shown up for work. I tried to call him but I didn't get an answer.”

My spine suddenly felt as if it was encased in ice. “Keep trying,” I said to Billy. I looked at the others and knew from their expressions that my own had given away the fear I felt. “In the meantime, call Pete and see if he can come in and help out for a few hours.”

“Will do.”

“And if you hear from Gary, let me know right away, okay?”

“Sure.”

I disconnected the call and looked at Duncan. “Gary didn't show for work and he isn't answering his phone,” I said.

“It's probably nothing,” Duncan said. “He doesn't have a cell phone, does he?” I shook my head. “So maybe he's stuck in traffic somewhere. Last night's snowstorm has made a real mess of the streets.”

I nodded, but I couldn't shake the feeling of dread that had come over me. “I think we need to tell the others,” I said. “At least that way I'll feel like I've done as much as possible to help keep them safe.” No one said anything. “Let's put it to a vote,” I suggested. “Cora, should I tell the others or not?”

Cora frowned and stayed silent for several seconds. Finally, she said, “I appreciate knowing it myself and I have to admit that I've been extra-cautious lately about where I go, when I go, and who's around me. So I guess I'd have to say yes.”

“Frank?” I said.

“I think you should tell the others and let them decide how much of their fate they want to risk.”

I shifted my gaze to Joe with a questioning expression.

He gave his brother an apologetic look. “I usually agree with my brother,” he said, “but in this case I don't. Don't give the bastard the satisfaction of setting fear into everyone.”

“Mal, what do you think?”

“I think you should shut the bar down for a while and let the cops investigate this thing. Maybe if we talk some more to the people who got those packages, we can figure out how the letter writer targeted them. And that might lead us to the culprit.”

I shook my head. “I can't afford to shut down,” I told him. “I just invested all that money in the expansion. I have enough left over to survive a while if things slow down, but to shut down altogether would be too big a hit. Besides, my employees are depending on me for their paychecks.”

“Then sell the place,” Mal said.

I gaped at him. “Sell my father's bar?”

“It's your bar now,” he said. “And you can move away and start over somewhere else. Open a new Mack's Bar.”

“This is her home,” Joe said. “If she gives it all up, this letter writing bastard wins.”

“Joe is right,” Cora said. “Besides, even if she put the place up for sale, a business like this doesn't sell very fast. It could be months or even years before someone buys it. And that leaves the letter writer plenty of time to wreak more havoc.”

Mal threw up his hands and sighed. “Then I'm out of ideas,” he said.

“But you didn't answer the question,” I persisted. “Should I tell the others?”

He looked at me for a long time. His eyes softened and then he dropped his gaze to the table. “I think you need to listen to me and go somewhere safe,” he said. He pushed his chair back and stood. “I'm not going to play roulette with the fates of the others.” He looked at Duncan and his expression turned angry. “I can't believe you're just standing by and letting her deal with this.” With that, he walked into the living room, fetched his coat and hat from the closet, and left the apartment. The door below slammed closed as he exited.

Another awkward silence fell over the group and once again I was the one who broke it. “Well, I know where you stand on this question, Duncan, so it appears I have a stalemate and the decision is up to me.”

Cora's phone chirped, and she picked it up and read a message. “Tiny's downstairs,” she said, getting up from the table. “So I'm going to head out.” She looked at me with a sad, sorrowful expression. “I'm sorry you have to deal with this, Mack. Let me know what you decide. And let me know if you need anything.”

Joe and Frank both got up from the table as Cora turned to leave. “Time to call it a night,” Frank said. “Thanks for the dinner.”

“Yeah, and what Cora said goes for us, too,” Joe added.

Minutes later, Duncan and I were alone. “So what are you going to do?” he asked me.

“I don't know,” I said with a frustrated sigh. “But I do know that I hate being in this position.”

“I think Mal is sweet on you.”

“What?” His sudden change of subject threw me.

“He's fallen for you,” Duncan said.

My face felt hot.

“Don't tell me you didn't notice,” he said.

“I noticed,” I admitted.

“Should I be worried?”

I stared at him, debating my answer. Before I came up with one, his phone rang. He glanced at it, frowned, and answered. “Albright.”

I watched his face as he listened, saw his expression change from one of worry, to frustration, and then something akin to fear. He said very little, just the occasional “I see,” and “uh-huh,” and some one-word questions such as, “Where?” and “When?”

Finally, he thanked the caller and said he would be there soon.

“That was Jimmy,” he said as he disconnected the call.

“You have to leave?” I felt my heart sink.

“I do. I'm sorry.”

“I thought you were off tonight.”

“I was. But something has come up.”

“Can't the guys on duty handle it?”

He shook his head. “I have a special interest in this case.” Then he leaned over and took both of my hands in his. “I'm really sorry, Mack. Gary Gunderson isn't missing anymore.”

I pulled my hands loose of his and leaned back away from him in a futile effort to distance myself from the news he was about to deliver. “Is he . . .” I couldn't finish the question.

Duncan nodded. “They found his body an hour ago. He was in his car, parked in the lot by the Public Market.”

I squeezed my eyes closed as my heart tightened with pain. The location was no coincidence, I felt certain.

“He was shot,” Duncan continued, “and no weapon was found in the car.”

“No,” I cried. A tsunami wave of anger surged though me and I pounded my fist on the table. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

“There's something else,” Duncan said in a soft voice.

I stared at him through my tears, afraid of what he would say next.

“They found something stuffed in his mouth.”

“A note?”

“Not exactly.” Then he frowned and added, “Well, maybe.”

I held my breath, waiting. His next words took my breath away.

“It was a cocktail napkin, one of yours with the Mack's Bar logo on it.”

Directions
: Stir the coffee, sugar, and whiskey together in a glass mug. Pour the cream over the back of a spoon so that it layers on top of the coffee mixture. Do not stir. If desired, it can be topped off with a light sprinkle of cinnamon or nutmeg.

 

For a yummy cup of virgin Irish coffee simply leave out the whiskey.

 

 

Directions
: Fill a shaker with ice, add all of the liquid ingredients, and shake vigorously. Strain into a martini glass. Garnish with a maraschino cherry. Cherry flavored vodka can be used in place of the cherry liqueur, if desired.

 

For a virgin version, mix 2 oz. of half and half or milk with one Tbsp. of chocolate syrup, ½ oz. of grenadine, and one oz. of juice from ajar of maraschino cherries.

 

 

Directions
: Put ice in a shaker, and add all the ingredients except the grenadine. Shake well and then strain into a large glass with ice. Pour the grenadine on top and enjoy.

 

For a nonalcoholic alternative, use one oz. of cherry juice from ajar of maraschino cherries in place of the cherry liqueur, use one oz. of orange juice in place of the triple sec, and omit the vodka.

 

 

Directions
: Place 1-2 canned peach slices in the bottom of a champagne flute and slowly pour in the champagne. Add the orange juice and the peach heavy syrup. Do not stir. Top it off with a splash of triple sec.

 

To make this as a mocktail, use a nonalcoholic sparkling wine or apple juice in place of the champagne and leave out the triple sec.

 

 

Directions
: Put a cup of ice in a shaker, add all the ingredients, and shake. Pour into a chilled shot glass.

 

For a nonalcoholic treat, make real French toast!