Death Before Decaf (7 page)

Charlene asked, “Was he bald? Nasty beard? Sleeve tattoos on both arms?”

“Yeah.”

“That was Ron Hatcher, the no-good son of a bitch. He was Dave's bookie. Always on his ass for money.” Hmm. So old Dave was a gambler. Interesting. Charlene changed the subject. “Enough about that. Let's talk about us. How do you like your women, sugar?”

Before I could stop myself, I chuckled quietly. I was sure that Pete noticed, because he could see me clearly, and my shoulders were shaking. If she was going to continue to talk like this, I would have to move farther away.

Pete finally replied, “I…uh…I like women who have a sense of humor. Um, you know…” He trailed off.

“You look like you could use a woman who's been around the block.”

“No, no,” Pete said quickly. “No need for that. I prefer women who are sweet, and maybe a little shy at times. Someone I could take home to my grandmother.”

I could feel his eyes on me, so I turned my head. He was staring right at me. I quickly turned back around. Pete needed to stay on task or we'd never pull this off.

“Oh, honey, I can be shy and sweet. I can be anything you want me to be.”

Disgusted, I rolled my eyes. I couldn't stand women who would change their personalities for a man.

Pete changed the subject. “Um…thanks. I'll keep that in mind. Hey, Dave had to leave work last week to help his sister. Something about her boyfriend? Are they doing okay?”

“What the hell do I care? Gina's a total bitch, and she's always hated me.” Charlene laughed. “What happened was that she couldn't keep her man happy. Her baby daddy was cheating on her. Dave went over to help her kick him out of the house. Of course, they got into it, and stupid Billy pulled a knife on him.”

I peeked again and saw Pete's eyes widen. “What happened?”

Charlene shrugged. “Nothing much. He slashed the tires on Dave's truck and ran.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“Why?”

“Because your husband was stabbed.”

“Yeah, so?”

“With a
knife
. And his sister's boyfriend threatened him with a
knife
. See the connection?”

Charlene sounded unimpressed. “Billy wouldn't kill him. He don't have the balls.”

“Well, I think you should tell the police anyway.”

“They already said they had some suspects. Besides, I ain't fond of talking to pigs.”

I shivered. I was one of those suspects. But hopefully Pete could get enough information out of Charlene for us to find some dirt on one of the other suspects and clear my name.

“I'll be happy to tell them. What is Billy's last name?”

“Knock yourself out. It's Billy McClintock.” Yes! Pete was really doing a great job here. I owed him big-time. Charlene got sidetracked again. “Mmm, sweetheart. You look good enough to eat. Why don't we get out of here?”

I couldn't risk letting another giggle escape. I clamped my hand over my mouth and pulled the cap farther down my face.

Clearing his throat, Pete warbled, “We're not even halfway done with our drinks, Charlene. Besides, I really, uh, like this place. Oh, I almost forgot. Dave also talked about some guys who were in the joint with him giving him trouble. Do you know anything about that?”

I heard Charlene noisily tap a cigarette out of a pack. She seemed to be done answering questions. “Got a light, sweetie?”

Pete stammered, “N-no…sorry. So about these guys…”

Sneaking a look behind me, all I could see was Charlene's ass in my face as she leaned across the table to get closer to Pete. I could just imagine her boobs nearly bursting out of the tight-fitting shirt she was wearing as she tried to give Pete a view. Yucky.

Charlene sighed. “There were a couple of guys he did time with who were always trying to get him to run with them. Dave got into a fight with one of them here at this very bar, actually—just last weekend.”

“What was the fight about?” asked Pete.

“Probably over me,” she said boastfully. “He would beat up any guy who so much as looked at me. It was hot, and it always got him laid. I took good care of my man, if you know what I mean.”

Upon hearing that, Pete choked on his drink. I felt really bad about putting Pete through this, but it was working so well.

Lowering her voice, Charlene said, “Speaking of getting laid, what do you say you follow me home, sweet thing? I could take good care of you, too.”

“Uh…thank you for the offer, Charlene, but…uh…I have a meeting to get to in a few minutes.” I could hear the terror in Pete's voice. I snuck another look. Charlene was draped across the table, her face inches from Pete's.

She whispered, “Skip it,” and grabbed hold of the front of his shirt.

Oh, shit. If I didn't do something soon, this fiasco was going to end in a lap dance. Thinking fast, I grabbed my drink and got up. As I passed their table, I “tripped” and emptied my drink all over Charlene's head. I sprinted to the door without looking back. I could hear Charlene cussing me every step of the way, and once outside I made a mad dash for my car. Peeling out of the parking lot, I zipped over to Java Jive.

Once more in the safety of the coffeehouse, I was finally able to catch my breath. My crazy plan of having Pete flirt the information out of Charlene had worked like a charm. We learned that Ron Hatcher (Dave's sleazy bookie), Billy McClintock (Dave's sister's unstable baby daddy), and an unidentified prison buddy had all had recent run-ins with Dave. It shouldn't be difficult to return to The Dirty Duck and bribe a bartender to give me the prison pal's name. That made three suspects who weren't me! I was so relieved that I happily went back to cleaning the kitchen, whistling as I worked.

A few minutes later, I got a call from Pete. “I hope you got what you wanted, because I'm
never
going to do anything like that again.”

Imagining him pouting on the other end of the line, I smiled. “I did. And I can't thank you enough. You were a spectacular prostitute.”

“You take that back!”

I laughed, but sobered quickly, suddenly remembering something. “Hey, you know that guy on the Harley, the bookie Ron Hatcher, who you said argued with Dave? Did that really happen, or were you trying to get Charlene to talk?”

“It really happened. Last week I heard some arguing out the office window. Dave was out back with that scary guy, Ron. I only heard bits and pieces, but one thing I remember Ron saying was, ‘If you let this shit get out of hand, I'm gonna kill you. If it blows up in your face, you're back in jail, and I'm left high and dry.' ”

“Whoa! No way! Why didn't you tell me before?”

“I guess I had kind of forgotten about it in all of the craziness.”

“Did you tell the cops?”

“Yeah, I mentioned it when they questioned me.”

“And?”

“And they said they'd look into it.”

A lightbulb suddenly flicked on in my head. “You said he was on a Harley, in the alley?”

“Yeah, why?”

I gasped, “He was there!”

“Huh? Where?”

“In the alley the night Dave was killed! Someone on a motorcycle nearly ran me over!” Ron Hatcher had to be our guy!

“Did he look like the guy Charlene described—bald, bearded, with sleeve tattoos?”

“I don't know. It was dark. All I saw was a person on a speeding motorcycle.”

“Then how do you know it was him?”

I whined, “I don't know. It's a good theory.”

“Good as any. Are you going to call the police and tell them your theory?”

“Um…sure.” Not until I had more facts. I changed the subject. “So did you make another date with Charlene?”

“Hell no! Are you nuts? I'm just glad you threw that drink when you did. That cooled her off, but only a little. She had the nerve to grab my junk as we were leaving.”

I erupted into laughter. “I am so sorry. I really owe you one.”

“Yes, you do. Now I'm going to take several showers, drink several beers, and take a nap.”

“That should help.”

“Jules?”

“Yeah?”

I could practically hear him gritting his teeth as he said, “We will never speak of this again.”

“Roger that.”

I went back to my cleaning, and after not too much longer, I was finished. The place was spotless and smelled clean. After my day, I figured I could treat myself to some dinner, or at least a giant tub of ice cream. As I was putting my cleaning supplies away, I heard a knock at the door. Seriously considering not answering it, I quickly realized that was pointless since my car was now outside, in plain sight. If it was Detective Cromwell, he wouldn't go away without getting what he came for. I sighed and headed for the front of the house.

I was relieved to see that it wasn't in fact Cromwell at the door, but unfortunately my caller wasn't much more appealing. It was Seth, the sexy guy I had yelled at last night.

I walked up to the door but didn't open it. Pointing to the
CLOSED
sign, I yelled, “We're closed. Come back tomorrow.” I turned to head for the kitchen, but he knocked again. I stopped and went back to the door.

Seth yelled, “I came to see you.”

I figured that, but I didn't want to see him. Yesterday, I had resolved to apologize, but I was tired and grouchy and didn't really feel like doing it now. “I'm very busy,” I replied.

He smiled. I liked his smile a lot. “Look, Juliet, I wanted to come by and apologize for being such a dick last night, but I really don't want the whole neighborhood to hear.”

Oh. Well, that was pretty sweet. Men weren't generally big on apologies, since it usually involved admitting they'd been wrong. I guessed I could hear him out. I opened the door and let him in.

“Thanks,” he said, coming in and standing way too close to me.

I took a step back. “I believe you said something about an apology?”

“Right. I was rude to you last night.”

“I was rude to you, too. I'm sorry.”

“You don't need to apologize. I provoked you. I guess I was a little jealous.”

That surprised me. “Jealous?”

He grinned bashfully. “I was going to ask you out. But when I saw you with your boss, I figured I'd lost my chance.”

So he
was
interested. I had thought so, but it threw me when he busted me for supposedly drooling all over Pete's song last night. There was no doubt that tall, dark, and handsome Seth was hot. Going out with him would probably be fun. And I didn't see anything wrong with a little distraction.

I replied, “Seriously, like I told you—there's nothing going on between us…nor will there ever be. So, yes, I would be happy to go out with you.”

“As a consolation prize,” he said quietly.

Boo-frickedy-hoo. I didn't even know his last name, and he was wounded about not being my first choice? I narrowed my eyes at him. “Are you a drama queen? Because I don't go out with drama queens.”

He seemed startled, then broke into a big smile. “No, I'm not, actually. I like you. You speak your mind.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“So when do you want to go out?”

I shrugged. “How about now?”

Seth Davis (I finally asked him his last name) took me to a trendy new club downtown, Mixology. To my delight, it was not a country bar, because even though Nashville is my home away from home, I've never been much of a country music fan. Choosing a cozy circular booth, we ordered some food and drinks and made a little small talk. I found out that he was a professor at Vanderbilt in the film studies department.

“Film studies. You can major in watching movies?” I asked, puzzled.

He laughed easily. “No, film studies is much like any fine arts major. You study the history of the craft. You study the differences between genres. You study how to create the art yourself. Just like majoring in music doesn't mean all you do is sit around and listen to music all day.”

Seth had said before that Gertie had told him all about me, so I didn't feel the need to talk about myself too much. “Some days it
felt
like that's all we did. So, being a film studies professor, do you only like artsy-fartsy movies or will you watch movies that regular people actually like?”

“Artsy-fartsy? Is that a technical term?” He smiled again. I loved making him smile, because his already handsome face absolutely lit up.

“Yeah, for sucky movies.”

“Are you asking if I'm a film snob?”

“I guess.” Hot as he was, I could not handle dating someone who would only watch boring, artistic films.

“I like movies that are well written, well acted, and well executed. They don't have to be Oscar flicks, as long as I don't feel like I've wasted two hours of my life afterward.”

“So what's your favorite movie?”

He grinned. “My answer should probably be something like
Citizen Kane
or a Fellini film, but my favorite movie has always been
Die Hard
.”

“Really?” Extra points for the film professor who could admit that his favorite movie was
Die Hard
.

“All guys like action movies.” Leaning closer, he added, “And speaking of action, I hear that some major action happened at Java Jive after I left last night.”

I sighed. I really didn't want to talk about Dave's murder with anyone—well, except for Pete. Plus, I didn't even know if I was supposed to talk about it, since I was a “person of interest” or whatever.

“I wouldn't call it action. One of the staff passed away. It was sad, really.”

Seth frowned. “Right, of course. Very sad. How did the rest of the staff take it? Was he close with anyone?”

“I don't know. I haven't spoken to any of the staff yet.”

“How about Pete? How is he doing with all of this?”

He sure did ask a lot of questions. “Pete's known the guy for years, so he's understandably upset.”

“Understandably. Is Pete particularly close with any of the rest of the staff?”

Shrugging, I replied, “I don't know. I'm new.”

“Hopefully he has some kind of relationship built with them. In my experience, college kids can be tough to deal with under circumstances like this. Are you good with teenagers?”

I sighed. “Not at all. I wasn't even good with teenagers when I was a teenager.”

He laughed. “You may have your work cut out for you, then. Hey, if you need anyone to help you talk with them, I'd be happy to. I can talk to college students like it's my job.”

I hesitated for a moment while that sank in. Oh, it was a joke. “Ha, ha. It
is
your job.”

“I'm also very witty.” He winked at me. “So did you get the okay to open tomorrow?”

“Yeah, we'll be open tomorrow.”

Seth motioned for the waitress and ordered another round of drinks. I really didn't want another, but after the craziness of the past twenty-four hours, I needed something to take the edge off.

“I'm glad. I didn't know where to go to eat today, plus I didn't get to see my girlfriend.”

Smiling, I agreed, “I missed Gertie today, too. She's like a grandmother to me. When I was in college, I probably ate dinner at her house three nights a week. That woman can cook.”

“She baked me some cookies last week. Best I ever had.”

“I'm so jealous. Wait. Were they…”

We both said at the same time, “Pineapple chocolate chip!”

“My favorite. Weird combo, but it works,” I said.

He nodded. “I was shocked when she handed them to me. She talks tough, but deep down she's nothing but a sweet old lady.”

“I won't tell her you said that. She'd slap you into next week.”

Our second round of drinks arrived. Seth took a long pull from his beer and said, “Gertie said that Java Jive hasn't been doing too well business-wise. And that you're supposed to be their savior.”

Grimacing, I replied, “Something like that. There's a lot of pressure on my shoulders, but I think it shouldn't be too difficult to make a few changes and become profitable again.”

“Please don't change the Reuben sandwich. It's my favorite.”

“Don't worry. I won't. It's my favorite, too.”

“Do you have a handle on why business has declined? Do you think it's the staff or simply a shift of customers to a competitor?”

“I thought you were a film professor, not an economics professor.” Enough with the questions!

Seth laughed easily. “Sorry. The economy plays a role in both film production and profit, so I have an interest in economics as well. I wonder if being the scene of a murder will be good or bad for business.”

“Nobody said anything about murder,” I said uneasily, gulping my drink.

He gave me a weird look. “Yeah, they did. It's all over the news. Do you live under a rock or something?”

I said quietly, “No, I just don't feel like reliving it.” I had been very careful today to avoid media of any kind, and sticking my head in the sand was keeping me sane.

Taking my hand, he said kindly, “I wondered if you were the one who found the body. Do you want to talk about it? It's okay if you don't.”

His concern for me was sweet, and his touch shot a tingle up my arm. “Thanks, but I'm kind of freaked out by it. I'd rather not talk about it too much.” The image of Dave lying in the dumpster popped into my head again, and I felt ill. Worrying that it was a good possibility I'd lose my dinner, I excused myself and fled the table.

Once inside the ladies' room, I splashed some water on my face and looked in the mirror. Not cute. I was paler than usual, which was hardly possible with my already glow-in-the-dark-hued skin tone. The only color I had to my face was the big, purple circles under my green eyes. I quickly swiped some concealer over them, and was halfway through applying blush to my cheeks when the bathroom door opened and a man walked in. Horrified, I looked around, hoping in my haste that I hadn't chosen the wrong restroom. Nope. The tampon dispenser and lack of urinals were a sure sign that I was in the right place. Not wanting to get involved with a perv, I packed up my makeup and headed for the door.

The man blocked my exit. He was scrawny, only a little taller than me, so he wasn't particularly intimidating, but his eyes were hard. He asked, “Are you Juliet Langley?”

Gasping, I whispered, “Yes.”

He broke into a smile, shoving the end of his phone in my face. “I'm Don Wolfe from the
Nashville Gazette
. We spoke earlier, but somehow we got cut off. Care to give me an exclusive on the death of David Hill? I'll get it all here on a recording, so you can be sure I quote you right,” he drawled. Normally, I associated a Southern drawl with nice Southern folk, but there was something about this guy that was distinctly vile.

Taken aback, I cried, “In a ladies' restroom? That's disgusting. And I thought I made it clear before that I have no comment.”

Undaunted, he continued, “You found the body. Can you describe it for me? What were you thinking when you saw the dead man?”

Stepping away from him, I warned, “Stop! I don't want to talk to you!”

He pressed, “I heard through the grapevine that you're a person of interest. Why is that?”

I tried going around him, but he got in my way again. “Let me by,” I cried.

“Not until you give me something.”

Anger quickly replaced my fear. “Oh, I'll give you something.” I raised my knee and planted it between his legs.

Wolfe cried out like a little girl and slid down the wall. “My nuts! Ohhhh…son of a bitch, that hurts! I'll get you for assault!”

Remembering that he was recording our conversation, I asked, “Did I bump into you, Mr. Wolfe? I'm so clumsy sometimes. My apologies.” I stepped over him and hurried back to the table.

Seth took one look at my face and hopped up, taking my hands. “Are you feeling okay? I was worried about you.”

I felt pretty badass until I had to talk about it, and then I started shaking. “Um…well, a reporter accosted me in the ladies' room. It was a
man
, by the way, and he…started trying to interview me.”

Seth's face immediately grew dark as he peered around the room. “Where is he now?”

“I don't know.” I brightened a little, thinking back to the pained look on Wolfe's face. “Hopefully he's still on the bathroom floor, clutching his balls.”

He regarded me quizzically. “Did you have anything to do with that?”

Feeling better by the second, I admitted, “My knee may have made contact.”

Seth grinned at me, impressed. “I guess you don't need me to beat him up for you, then. Need another drink?”

“Please.”

Seth didn't ask any more questions on the subject, so we sat in silence for a while, listening to the musician onstage. His style was much like mine had been—acoustic, singer songwriter–type music. He was quite good, although I didn't recognize his name. There was a small dance floor in front of the stage, and a few couples were dancing.

“Gertie tells me you used to be a singer,” Seth said, startling me.

“Um, right. Used to be.”

“Were you good?”

I hesitated. I had thought I was pretty good, and my small-venue concert tours had done well. However, my career had still gone down in flames. “I was okay.”

“So why are you working at a coffeehouse instead of being up on a stage somewhere?”

“Long story.” It was also a story I didn't care to tell.

He slid over until he was sitting next to me and draped his arm around the back of the booth. “I've got time.”

Even though I liked being so close to him, I still wasn't ready to open up. My stage-fright issues were some heavy shit. “I meant I don't like to talk about it.”

His mouth pulled up in the corner. His lips looked awfully kissable. Yep, Seth was going to be the perfect distraction for all of my troubles. “You don't want to talk about much, do you?”

I looked at him. “I don't want to talk at all.”

Picking up on my cue, he leaned toward me, taking my face in his hands and gently brushing my lips with his. I melted into him, pressing my lips to his. He responded by putting his arms around me and pulling me closer, his kiss becoming deeper and more urgent. Seth certainly knew what he was doing, and I got caught up in the moment.

He pulled back and looked at me, smiling. “Dance with me.”

I agreed, and he led me out to the dance floor, where we did a lot more kissing than dancing. Seth was a fantastic kisser, he was interesting and funny, and he was incredibly handsome. So why in the hell were my thoughts suddenly straying to Pete?

Seth drove me back to Java Jive, where I picked up my car. He kissed me good night (a lot) and said he'd see me tomorrow. I went to my apartment and did what any woman who was interested in a new man would do: I cyberstalked him.

The problem was, although “Seth Davis, professor of film studies” got several Google hits, none of them showed that he had anything to do with Vanderbilt. I searched around on Vanderbilt's website and came up empty-handed. He had told me that he just started working there at the beginning of the semester, but seriously, why wouldn't their website have been updated? It didn't seem very Vandy-ish of them to not provide up-to-the-minute information. Oh, well. I was sure there was a reasonable explanation for it.

It wasn't terribly late, so I shifted the focus of my cyberstalking to Charlene's three suspects. The bar fight guy would be impossible to find until I went back to The Dirty Duck and found out his name. Dave's sister Gina's baby daddy, Billy McClintock, was simple to find mainly because he had a very open Facebook page, not surprisingly filled with a lot of public Facebook fights and rants. Dumbass even had his address listed for all the world to see. After some more searching, I realized that it was the address of the house he shared with Gina, which he had just gotten kicked out of. Oh, well, it wouldn't hurt to talk to Gina, too, and maybe I could get his new address from her. There were several Ron Hatchers in Nashville, which wasn't too surprising. He was a bookie, so it wasn't like he advertised on social media, but the right Ron couldn't be terribly hard to find by asking around. My problem was that I didn't know who to ask. Maybe Pete would.

I called Pete. “Hey, if I were looking for a bookie, where would I start?”

Pete answered groggily, “Huh? Jules, what in the hell do you want with a bookie?”

“Are you asleep already? It's only nine!”

“I had a rough day,” he whined.

I chuckled. He sounded so sad. “I want to find Ron Hatcher and talk to him.”

“What? I thought you were taking your info to the police!”

“Well…I thought it would be better to have some facts to back it up.”

“You're not a detective, Jules. Leave it to the professionals.”

“The professionals suck. I'm tired of being treated like a criminal. We're going to find Ron Hatcher.”