Authors: Isis Crawford

A Catered St. Patrick's Day (7 page)

BOOK: A Catered St. Patrick's Day

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Chapter 6

T
he only three people sitting in RJ’s when Libby and Bernie walked in were Otis, Megan, and Bruce. This made the place look bigger than it was. RJ’s had an allowable occupancy of two hundred, but on good days it ran way over that number.

The place would fill up later in the day as people stopped by to get a drink on their way home from work, but for now the balls on the pool table were racked, no one was playing darts, and the TV was on mute. The only sounds were the occasional cackle from Megan laughing at one of her private jokes and Otis humming to himself while he downed his second gin.

Bernie and Libby nodded to them as they moved on to their customary seats at the other end of the cherrywood bar. The countertop was Mulroney’s pride and joy and he never tired of telling the story of how he’d salvaged it from a bar in Vermont before the tax people had come and closed the place down.

Bernie knew that Mulroney wouldn’t have approved of Otis, Megan, and Bruce sitting there and drinking. They weren’t the type of clientele he wanted, but since he was never there at that hour of the day it didn’t matter. Even though Longely didn’t have any town drunks, that designation being totally unPC—these days people had drinking issues—Otis, Megan, and Bruce came as close as anyone in town to filling that particular bill.

Brandon always let them sit there and drink until the commuters came in, at which point he shooed them out, since they tended to be somewhat odiferous if you got close enough. Otherwise, everyone complained about their smell and their gener N there andally unkempt appearance.

Over the years Bernie had noticed that Otis, Bruce, and Megan didn’t seem to mind their unofficial curfew. They always left willingly and Bernie thought they were just grateful to Brandon for letting them stay in RJ’s in the first place—since most of the other bars in Longely wouldn’t let them through the front door—as well as for the fact that Brandon could be relied upon to spot them a couple of bucks now and then when things got really tight.

“My heroines,” Brandon called out as Libby and Bernie sat down on the bar stools near the window. He’d been restocking in preparation for the evening rush and had seen their reflections in the mirror hanging over the back shelves when they’d entered. He went over to the cooler and got them both bottles of root beer.

“Good stuff,” he said, pushing the bottles across the counter after he’d opened them. “Artisan.”

“Be still my heart. What did they do?” Bernie asked. “Go out and collect the roots?”

“Yes, and they were wearing capes and carrying willow baskets when they did it,” Brandon told her. “Unless you want something a little harder. I figured it was too early for anything else, but I could be wrong.”

“You? Never,” Bernie said in mock horror.

“Let’s not exaggerate.” Brandon put a bowl full of unshelled peanuts between Bernie and Libby. “It has happened once or twice.”

“Maybe even three times,” Bernie said teasingly. “No. This will be fine, thank you very much. Nice bottle,” Bernie said, picking it up and studying it before putting it back down. “Old fashioned.”

“That’s the idea,” Brandon told her.

“You know,” she said, “back in the old days root beer had a kick.”

Brandon leered. “So do I.”

Bernie took a sip from the bottle. “Are you comparing yourself to a bottle of root beer?”

Brandon wagged his eyebrows. “I’m much better than that. If you want I’ll prove it to you.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll have to take a rain check on that,” Bernie told him. “We’re here on business.”

Brandon put his hands to his heart. “I’m crushed,” he said.

“That’ll be the day,” Bernie told him.

“You don’t think I’m crushable?” Brandon declared. “Do I not bleed when you prick me ...?”

“Enough,” Bernie cried, holding up her hand. “No mangled Shakespeare, please.”

Brandon sniffed. “If you feel that way, fine, but I’ll have you know I was in Macbeth in college.”

“Yeah. In the stage crew. Don’t even pretend that your feelings are hurt,” Bernie told him.

Brandon smiled. He put his elbows on the bar and leaned in toward Bernie and Libby. “So I’m just guessing here, but I take it I owe the pleasure of your visit to Mike Sweeney’s unfortunate demise? Although I have to say, if you’re a drunk, maybe that’s the way to go.”

“I don’t know about that,” Libby said. “I think his death falls under the ‘be careful what you wish for’ category.”

“It’s probably not a good way to die,” Brandon conceded. “Drowning is drowning. They ran the story on the news earlier.”

“Yeah, I saw it,” Bernie said. “They gave it a lot of play.”

“Hometown boy kills hometown boy. Pretty unusual stuff up around here.” Brandon stifled a yawn. “Sorry. I have to start getting to bed earlier. How’s the investigation going?”

Bernie nodded. “Slowly. Very slowly.”

“I’ve got to say I’m a little surprised. Duncan was never one of your ...”

“Biggest fans?” Bernie asked, finishing Brandon’s sentence.

“Exactly,” Brandon said.

“Duncan didn’t hire us,” Libby said.

“So who did?” Brandon asked.

Libby took a sip of her root beer. It was surprisingly good. No. It was great. She took another sip and thought about the old soda fountain on Main Street, and that got her wondering about whether or not they should serve root beer floats in the summer. She thought it would be easy enough to do. Maybe they could even make and sell their own ice cream. She’d have to remember to talk to Bernie about that. But that was for later. Right now she had more pressing concerns—like the Sweeney investigation.

“Bree hired us,” she told Brandon, getting back to the matter at hand.

“Ah,” Brandon replied. “The duchess must not be pleased about the situation her nephew has gotten himself into.”

“You could say that about her royal highness,” Bernie said, thinking back to Bree’s behavior in their flat.

Brandon leaned over, grabbed a handful of peanuts out of the bowl, and began shelling them. “Well, over the years she’s spent a lot of time and money keeping Duncan out of trouble. I’m not so sure she can do it this time.”

“I guess we’ll see what we can turn up,” Bernie said noncommittally.

“You think there’s a chance that Duncan didn’t do it?” Brandon asked.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Bernie said. She took a peanut out of the bowl, shelled it, and popped it into her mouth.

As he did likewise, Brandon said, “You know the cops were around a while ago asking for Liza.”

Bernie reached for another peanut and cracked the shell between her thumb and forefinger. She decided that what she liked about peanuts in the shell was that you had to eat them slowly. “So what did you tell them?” she asked.

“I didn’t tell them anything because there’s nothing to tell,” Brandon replied. “I haven’t seen Liza since the night Mike Sweeney died.”

“Have you heard anything?”

“About her?”

“No. About my dad.”

Brandon shook his head. “Not a peep. It’s like she’s disappeared from sight.”

“Was she in here a lot?” Libby asked.

“She’d stop in at least three or four times a week with the other potato heads.”

Libby wrinkled her forehead. “Potato heads?”

“He means Sweeney and Liam and those guys,” Bernie explained. “So,” she said to Brandon, “I don’t suppose that by any chance you heard any of those guys saying anything about her?”

Brandon straightened up. “What are you implying?” he asked Bernie.

Bernie rolled her eyes. “I’m not implying anything.“

“You most certainly are. You’re implying that I eavesdrop on my customers, a suggestion I find abhorrent in the extrem Sin “e.”

Libby giggled. “Like you’re not the gossip queen.”

“Queen?” Brandon squeaked. “You’re calling me a queen now?”

“Okay, a king then,” Libby said.

Brandon tried to look offended. “That’s terrible.”

Libby giggled harder. “I’m sorry,” she finally managed to get out.

“I didn’t think it was that funny,” he said when Libby stopped laughing. “Seriously,” Brandon said.

Libby tried to look repentant. “You’re right.”

Bernie decided it was time to intervene. “Okay, Brandon,” she said. “Let me ask you another question. Do you think it’s possible that Liza put some kind of knockout drops in Duncan’s drink?”

“For real?” Brandon asked.

Bernie nodded.

“It’s a theory we’re exploring,” Libby added. “So what do you think?”

“I think it’s certainly possible; anything is possible. But there’s no way I can tell you for certain. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“There weren’t a lot of people in here that night,” Bernie observed.

“I know, but I was busy cleaning and then I was reading the newspaper for a little while. I wasn’t watching Liza, Duncan, or Sweeney. I mean she was sitting between both guys, but ...” Brandon shrugged his shoulders.

“But what?” Bernie asked.

“I remember Duncan and Sweeney both hit the head a couple of times. I suppose Liza could have put the stuff in Duncan’s beer then.”

“Was Duncan acting weird?” Bernie asked Brandon.

“Weird as in how?”

“Weird as in spacey,” Libby said.

“No more than usual.” Brandon straightened up. “Of course, that’s the beauty with roofies. People act the way they usually do. They’re just more suggestible. Of course, the same holds true of Oxis.”

“Oxis?” Bernie asked.

“Oxycontin,” Brandon said. “The painkillers.”

“I know what they are,” Bernie told him. “But I didn’t know they did that.”

Brandon shrugged. “Evidently they have that effect on some people.”

“Who knew?” Bernie said.

Brandon laughed. “Not me, that’s for sure. At least not until Spike told me.”

Libby cleared her throat. Bernie and Brandon looked at her.

“So you didn’t notice anything odd about Duncan’s behavior?” Libby asked again. “Anything at all?”

Brandon shook his head. “Nope. I can’t say I did, but then, like I said, I really wasn’t paying attention.” He was about to say something else whe
n the front door banged open and the remaining members of the Corned Beef and Cabbage Club rolled into the bar.

Brandon nodded toward them. “Apparently it’s your lucky day. Now you can ask the guys about Liza yourselves.”

Chapter 7

B
ernie watched as Brandon ambled down to serve Liam, Patrick, and Connor. “Hey,” he said. “You guys are early today. Vrni Did they finally decide to fire you losers?”

“Cute,” Liam said. “In answer to your question, no. They have not decided to fire us. We have declared this day an official day of mourning for our fallen brother. We would all like black and tans,” he told Brandon as he, Pat, and Connor bellied up to the bar.

As Bernie studied them, she realized that the guys all looked the same—big and burly with fair skin, light brown hair, and hazel eyes. Duncan was thinner than the rest of them by a wide margin. But Mike Sweeney had been the same size as the other three. Now she remembered that he, Patrick, Liam, and Connor had all been rugby players, whereas Duncan had not. Probably hadn’t wanted to mess up his perfect features.

So given that, the question was how had Duncan held Sweeney’s head under when Sweeney outweighed him by a good fifty pounds? She supposed he could have. Anything was possible. But it would have been a real struggle, something that would have been much easier for Liam, Patrick, or Connor to do, unless of course Duncan had knocked him unconscious first.

But according to Clyde the ME said that hadn’t happened. And even if it had happened, it still would have been very difficult to drag Sweeney over to one of the barrels, lift him up, and hold his head under. Bernie was still trying to work out the scenario as she got off her bar stool and walked over to the guys.

“Hi,” she said to them. “Let me buy you this round.”

“We won’t say no,” Liam told her, not hiding the fact that he was looking her up and down.

She turned to Brandon. “Put their drinks on my tab.”

Brandon nodded. “Will do.”

“Thanks,” Patrick said. He was wearing a blue and green tie. He leered at her. “You’re looking good since you got back from Cali. Real good, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Yeah,” Liam joined in. “I was just thinking that myself.”

Connor grinned. “What do you want with that lug,” he asked Bernie, nodding in Brandon’s direction, “when you can have one of us?”

“Or all of us,” Liam said.

Brandon scowled and started toward them, but Bernie held him off with a look. “Have any of you guys seen Liza?” she asked, ignoring their comments.

“Why do you want to know?” Liam demanded. “You want to make it a foursome?”

“Fivesome, wet brain,” Connor said to Liam. “Learn how to count.”

Liam shrugged. “That’s not my best ability.”

“Hey,” Brandon growled. “Let’s show some respect here.”

“Don’t you have a sense of humor?” Liam asked him.

Brandon got red in the face. “Not in this case.”

“Lighten up,” Liam told him. “We’re only goofing.”

“Just so you know,” Brandon said.

Liam put both hands in the air, palms outward. “I get it. I get it.”

“Good,” Brandon said. He came over and slammed the men’s drinks in front of them. Then he moved a short distance away, leaned on the back of the bar, crossed his arms over his chest, and glowered as Libby got down from her seat and walked over.

“Your sister’s boyfriend is pretty touchy,” Patrick said to her.

“Listen,” Libby replied. “Why don’t you stop being a jerk?”

Patrick took a gulp of his beer and put his bottle back down. “Well, I’ll say one thing for you. You’re certainly direct.”

BOOK: A Catered St. Patrick's Day

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