A Sinister Sense (17 page)

“Absolutely.” She held out the book. “And I know you have a lot of them.”

“None quite as loyal as you.” He headed for the door, saying over his shoulder, “Let’s get together soon for a home-cooked Italian dinner.”

“Just name the day.” She watched him leave, feeling so sorry for him she could cry.

Ten minutes before she was ready to close up shop the
doorbell rang again. This time John Halloran stood leering at her as she approached the counter.

“I just stopped in to see if you’ve got anything new in the
Devil’s World
series,” he said, starting down one of the aisles. “I finished the last one I bought. Excellent book.”

Clara decided to let him browse the shelves on his own. She was in no mood for his snide remarks. With one eye on the clock, she waited for him to return to the counter.

It was a minute or two past eight when he finally wandered out of the aisle, carrying a couple of books. “Sorry,” he said with his sleazy smile. “It took me a while to make up my mind.”

“It’s okay.” She took the books from him and rang up the charge.

“I saw Rick in here earlier.” John hunched his shoulders. “He’s having a hard time of it.”

“Yes, he is,” Clara said as she handed him his receipt.

“Did he say anything to you, about the investigation, I mean?” John’s eyes gleamed at her from behind his glasses. “He doesn’t say much to me.”

“That’s probably because there’s not a lot to say.” Clara bagged the books and handed them over. “He’s waiting, like everyone else is, for the police to find the real murderer.”

“So you don’t think he did it.”

Clara glared at him. “Of course he didn’t do it. How can anyone believe that Rick Sanders is capable of murder?”

John nodded. “Of course, I heartily agree. But that means the killer is still on the loose around here. Unless
he’s left town. Maybe the police will never find out who did it.” He headed for the door, pausing to look back at her as he reached it. “That would be a shame,” he murmured. “That would be a great shame.” Shaking his head, he went out the door and let it close behind him.

Clara frowned at the door, trying to figure out what the heck John meant by all that. He was an odd man, always talking in riddles, and there were times when she wondered if he was merely rambling or if he was deliberately trying to confuse everyone.

Glancing at the clock again, she walked quickly over to the door and turned the “Open” sign around to “Closed.” She didn’t have time to worry about John Halloran right now. It was well past eight and she had to get to Laurel Street. All she hoped was that they’d learn something—anything—that would help track down whoever had killed Frank Tomeski, and put an end to all the speculation. Maybe then she could look forward to an evening of home-cooked Italian food and good wine.

It took Clara several minutes longer than she’d expected to find the tavern on Laurel Street. She parked on the street, leery of leaving the car in the shadowed parking lot behind the building.

The tavern looked like an old shack, with tiny windows and a door that badly needed paint. Judging from the sound of raised voices and the heavy thumping of a bass guitar, there was no shortage of customers inside. The noise blasted her ears when she pushed the door open and walked in. The smell of beer and sweaty bodies almost made her turn around and walk out again, but she caught sight of Stephanie and Molly at a table by the window and headed in their direction.

Molly’s cheeks were flushed, and she was clutching a
glass of beer in her hands as if afraid someone would snatch it away from her.

“How many has she had?” Clara demanded as she sat down at the table.

Stephanie rolled her eyes. “She’s halfway through her first glass. We only just got here half an hour ago.”

“I’m over twenty-one, anyway,” Molly said, lifting the glass. “I’m allowed to drink as much as I want.”

“Not as long as I’m sitting here.” Clara caught her cousin’s raised eyebrows. “I’m responsible for her being here. I’m not going to be responsible for her getting drunk. Unless you want to leave her car here and take her home yourself.”

Molly put down the glass. “Take it easy, Clara. I’m not that crazy about beer, anyway. I’m just drinking it to be sociable.”

Stephanie leaned forward. “Are you okay? You sound frazzled.”

Clara sighed and leaned back on her chair. “Sorry. Between my mother and Tatters, and now this place, I’m beginning to feel a little fragile.”

Stephanie burst out laughing. “Fragile? You? Never. Order a drink and you’ll feel better.”

Clara caught the eye of a buxom middle-aged blonde wearing a red T-shirt three sizes too small for her and jeans that strained at the seams. Her jaw worked at a piece of chewing gum as she took Clara’s order. “We don’t have no chardonnay,” she said, scribbling down something on her pad. “We’ve just got white wine or red.”

“That’s why I’m drinking beer,” Stephanie muttered.

Giving in to the inevitable, Clara ordered a beer. “I guess we should start asking questions.”

“Are you going to question Miss America over there?” Stephanie nodded at their server, who was now leaning over the counter giving her order to the bartender.

Molly giggled, then straightened her face when Clara looked at her.

“We’ll talk to the manager.” Clara glanced around the crowded bar. “That’s if this place has a manager.”

“Here comes Blondie again,” Stephanie said, nodding at the server crossing the room toward them. “We can ask her.”

Clara waited while the woman took a beer off her loaded tray and dumped the glass down on the table. “You wanna tab?” The server nodded at Stephanie. “She’s got one.”

“Add it to hers, then.” Clara smiled. “She’s good for it.”

The server looked at Stephanie, who nodded. About to turn away, the woman paused when Clara asked, “I’d like to speak to the manager. Is he here?”

The server spun around so fast beer slopped over the sides of the glasses on her tray. “Whatcha want to see the manager for? What did I do wrong?”

She looked so fierce Clara eased back on her chair. “You haven’t done anything. I just want to talk to him about something else, that’s all.”

“Well, if you’re looking for a job, I can tell you, we ain’t hiring right now.”

“I’m not looking for a job.” Clara tried another smile. “I just want to ask the manager about something. Can you tell me where I can find him?”

“It ain’t a
he
, it’s a
her
.” The blonde jerked her finger at the counter. “She’s the redhead behind the bar.”

“Figures,” Stephanie muttered.

Clara nodded. “Thank you.”

The server stood there for a moment longer, her face tight with suspicion, then she marched off to serve the rest of her customers.

“Wow,” Molly said, watching her leave, “she’s one tough cookie.”

“Take a look at the manager,” Stephanie said, nodding at the bar. “She makes Miss America look like a librarian.”

Clara followed her cousin’s gaze and finally focused on the redhead. The manager’s bright red hair was cropped close to her head, and her eyes were ringed with black, giving her the look of a belligerent raccoon. Her arms bulged beneath the short sleeves of her black T-shirt, and she wore what looked like a studded dog collar around her throat.

“Holy crap,” Stephanie said as she watched the woman playfully cuff one of her customers behind the ear. “I wouldn’t want to get her mad at me.”

Clara swallowed. The longer she stayed in that noisy, smelly place, the less enthusiastic she got about asking questions. She would give anything to be outside, breathing in fresh sea air. The memory of Rick’s unhappy face,
however, revived her. Someone had to help him, and it didn’t look as if anyone else was rushing to his aid.

She swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of beer and put the glass down. “Wish me luck.”

Stephanie looked startled. “You want us to come with you?’

“No. She might be more willing to talk if she’s not facing three of us.”

“Okay, but we’ll be watching, just in case.”

“In case of what?” Molly asked, sounding worried.

“In case she needs help.” Stephanie smiled at her. “It’s okay. I’m sure she’ll be just fine.”

Wishing she could feel as confident, Clara walked over to the bar. The redhead was deep in conversation with a burly guy whose nose looked as if it had been broken more than once. Clara leaned one elbow on the counter and tried to look as if this were her usual choice of evening entertainment.

She’d have felt better if she’d been wearing a T-shirt and jeans—apparently the uniform for patrons of the Laurel Street Tavern—instead of the ruffled top and slacks she’d worn to work.

A male voice jerked her out of her thoughts, and she looked up to see a young bartender with greasy hair and an even greasier smile gazing at her as if she were about to offer him a thousand-dollar bonus. She glanced down to where the manager was still chatting to Broken Nose.

Deciding she might as well take advantage of the opportunity, she smiled back. “Hi, I’d like a white wine, please.”

“Coming right up!” The bartender picked up a wineglass and twirled it in his fingers before setting it down on the counter. Clara watched with interest as he swung a bottle of wine up in the air. The devilish part of her was hoping he’d drop it, but he caught it deftly by the neck and set it down next to the glass.

His next trick was to throw a corkscrew over his head and catch it behind his back. When it landed in his fingers, he got a burst of applause from the several men seated at the bar. Clara resisted the urge to join in the clapping. The bartender looked disappointed. Apparently his performance had been solely for her benefit.

“Haven’t seen you in here before,” he said as he poured her a generous glass of wine.

“That’s because I haven’t been in here before.” Clara sipped from the glass, doing her best not to make a face.

“You must be a tourist, then.” The bartender wiped down the counter with a grubby-looking cloth.

“Nope.” Clara put down the glass. “I live here.”

The bartender’s smile widened. “So, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

Clara laughed. “Maybe I’m looking for some excitement. Someone told me you have plenty of action in here.”

“Action?” The bartender raised his eyebrows. “What kind of action?”

“I can give you all the action you want,” a voice said at her elbow.

Clara looked at the bald-headed man grinning at her. “I didn’t mean that kind of action.” She turned back to the bartender. “I heard you had a big fight in here last week.”

The bartender’s expression changed. “I don’t know nothing about that.” He gave her a hard look and walked away from her down the bar.

“I do,” the bald-headed man said, sidling closer to her.

Clara edged away from him. “Were you here that night?”

The man nodded. “Jim’s the name. Jim Hardy.”

He held out his hand and Clara brushed it with her fingers. “Nice to meet you. So tell me about the fight.”

It seemed Jim Hardy was eager to tell her what happened. He settled himself on the stool by her side and leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “I was right here at the counter when it started. This guy comes in, and you could tell right away he was looking for trouble. He was all tense and nervous, if you know what I mean. He ordered a double shot of Jim Beam and chucked it down his throat as if he hadn’t had a drink in months. Then he orders another one and downs that, too.” Jim shook his head. “I never saw anyone drink good bourbon that fast.”

Clara shook her head. “That must have gone to his head in a hurry.”

“I dunno. Some guys can drink a whole bottle before they get a buzz, if you know what I mean.” Jim picked up his beer glass and guzzled some down. “Personally I can’t touch the stuff. Kills my stomach.”

Clara nodded in sympathy. “So what about the fight? “

“Yeah, well, this guy was on his fourth double when Jake Pritchard comes in with Vera, his girlfriend.” He nodded at a group of men sitting near the door. “That’s Jake over there. The big guy with the beard and shaggy eyebrows. That’s Vera next to him. Those two have been going out together for years. I don’t know why they don’t up and get married.”

“I’m sure they have their reasons,” Clara said, thinking about what Buzz had said about Frank Tomeski’s girlfriend. “So did the man at the bar start a fight with Jake?”

Jim nodded. “Went after his girlfriend. Vera came up to the bar to give their order. Jake always sends her up here when it’s busy. He don’t like to be kept waiting, that Jake. Tough bastard, he is.”

Looking across the room at Jake, Clara was inclined to agree. “So what happened then?”

“Well, this guy goes up to Vera at the bar and tries to hit on her. Vera doesn’t want none of it.” He glanced across the room. “If you ask me, she’s afraid of Jake. Can’t say I blame her.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Clara saw the bartender whispering something to the manager and nodding in her direction. It made her uneasy, and she tried to hurry up Jim’s saga of the fight. “So Jake got jealous?” she prompted.

Jim grinned. “Not at first. He didn’t see what was going on. It was this other gal who started everything. Must have been the guy’s girlfriend. She came screaming in the door and rushed right over to the counter and grabbed
Vera’s hair. She was yelling and cursing at the guy, while Vera was trying to get free from her. That’s when Jake sees what’s going on and comes rushing over. He threw a punch at the guy, and that’s when I got out of here. I could tell what was going down, and I didn’t want to be no part of it.”