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And she really should call her mother again, find out how long her aunt and uncle were going to be in town, and start putting together that list. . . .

“I think they all really believe in what they're doing here,” Tonica said, finally. “But that doesn't mean one of them couldn't be a thief.”

“Other than Nora, who hired us to find the thief,” Ginny pointed out, logically.

“Unless she did it as a cover, thinking we were incompetent, or that she could misdirect us.”

“Do you really think that?” Ginny was horrified—not that Nora might do that, but that anyone might think she was incompetent.

Tonica frowned. “No. Not really. I don't think she's smart enough to plan that, honestly.”

“Ouch!” But she couldn't disagree. Nora seemed sweet, and good at her job, but easily flustered and probably not plotting-things-out smart, no. “Okay, so I'm going to do a little background work on the employee files,” Ginny said, and held up the too-thin folder Este had given her, “and see if anything shakes loose. If nothing else, I'll have an idea of how much they're earning. How 'bout you?”

“I have to get to work,” he said. “If Patrick brings up one more change he wants to implement, or . . .” He shook his head, clearly exasperated just thinking about the possibilities. “I'll see if anyone else who comes to Mary's has
adopted from here. Maybe they'll have heard something, or know one of the players.”

“Oh.” She was annoyed that he'd been the one to mention that. “I should have thought of that.”

“Yeah, well, you're not
entirely
perfect, Ms. Mallard.” He looked smug, and she couldn't blame him.

“If Claire comes in, I think she got a cat here, and oh, whatshisname, the one who owns Jezebel.” She might not have thought of it, but she could do it better.

“Who?”

“The tiny dog that looks like a greyhound assaulted a mop.”

“Oh, you mean Simeon.”

“Yeah, him. I think Jezebel came from here, too. He mentioned something about it when I got Georgie.”

Tonica shook his head again. “You realize that you know the dog's name before you know the person?”

“That happens all the time,” she said, laughing a little. “It's weird, but . . . yeah. It sort of freaked me out at first, too. People know me as Georgie's mom before I'm Ginny.”

“I'd noticed that. Pet owners. You're all weird.”

“Yeah, well, I think that's more specific to dog owners, so you're safe.”

“She's not my cat.”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to respond, but she just smiled smugly at him. “If you say so. I'm going to walk home—Georgie could use the exercise and honestly, so could I.”

Tonica was too female-savvy to get caught by that, as expected. “Enjoy the walk. Stop by later and we can exchange notes.”

“Yeah, it'll have to be tomorrow; I've got dinner plans.” Tonica worked night shifts on the weekend, and there was no reason to haul him out of bed early again just because she was a morning person. “I'll call you around noon tomorrow. We can reconnoiter. Sound good?”

He grunted, checking something on his phone. “Yeah, that'll do.”

She flicked Georgie's leash to get the shar-pei's attention, and got her moving before Tonica could ask what her dinner plans were.

Not that she thought he would be horribly invasive, or crack jokes at her expense—well, he might do the latter, but she could handle that. It was more the idea of him knowing about her personal life that felt weird. They worked together, but they weren't friends. Not that kind of friends, anyway. Max, she'd spill her guts to when she saw him next: her old friend was a total gossip, and could be counted on for advice or support as needed. Tonica was a more typical guy; he would probably grunt, or shrug, and change the subject.

“Not that there's much to tell Max, even,” she said to Georgie, who flicked her upright ear at her mistress as though to say “But I'm interested! Tell me!” Ginny smiled at the whimsy, but complied. “See, Georgie, first dates are one thing, because you're both on your best behavior. It's like a job interview, or when you were waiting on that
sidewalk for someone to come along and see what a cutie you were. Second dates are where you see a little below the surface, and third dates, that's when you find out the scary stuff. Huh. Maybe I
should
have told Tonica, so he could call me with an emergency if things get awkward. . . .”

Georgie's tail wagged, but Ginny couldn't tell if it was in approval of the plan or just because they were almost home.

*  *  *

When he pulled out of the shelter's parking lot, Tonica had first thought that he'd head home for a nap, since he didn't have to work until the evening shift. He quickly realized that driving all the way back to his apartment—through Friday afternoon traffic—when he was already in town didn't make much sense either. Stacy was working the afternoon shift; she wouldn't mind if he showed up early. And that would let him keep an eye on her without being obvious about it. He thought about it, and amended that to
too
obvious.

Not that he didn't think she could handle the work: if he did, he wouldn't have given her even the afternoon slot. But having backup was never a bad idea, even at Mary's.

It was barely a ten-minute drive from the shelter, even dealing with in-town traffic, so he got there before Mary's had officially opened. He pulled into the parking lot at back, slotting his car into his usual space, and got out just as Seth rode up in his beat-up old CB750. Tonica loved his coupe, but he had to admit the bike was sweet.

“You look suspiciously awake,” the older man said, removing his helmet and peering at Teddy.

“I had some stuff to take care of this morning,” he said, well aware that, even leaving his jacket in the car, he was better dressed than usual. Mary's dress code ran more to jeans and workboots, considering the messes that could happen, especially on weekends.

“Uh-huh.” Seth looked dubious, and Teddy suddenly realized that the old man thought that he had been out on a job interview.

He started to explain, and then stopped. None of the old man's business anyway, and he shouldn't be talking about this job until it was done. It just wasn't smart, when you didn't know who might be involved, locally. And Seth was a gossip who saw no reason not to talk to everyone—and anyone.

With that in mind, all he said as he followed Seth into the bar was “shaving and showering won't kill you,” getting a hrmph! in return.

Stacy was already there, shouting orders at Clive while she set up the bar. Since she was barely four years older than he was, that went over about as expected. Teddy leaned against the door and watched.

For all the chaos and petty annoyances, opening shift was actually Teddy's favorite. Most bartenders loved having people three-deep, raking in tips and keeping busy. He liked that, too—you didn't survive in this gig unless you were a people person—but there was something that soothed his soul in prep work. Getting the previous night's
glassware out of the steamer, setting up the speed rail just so, even arguments with Seth over what he'd be putting on the limited menu that day . . .

All the things that Stacy was throwing herself into, with gusto. He grinned, still unnoticed in the doorway. Yeah, she'd do just fine.

Having competent people to work with was nice; it gave him time to think, rather than just reacting to crisis.

Picking a table in the back where he'd be mostly out of the way, he settled in, resting the back of his chair against the wall so that he had a view of the main room, the bar to his left. Clive and Seth disappeared into the back, and he could hear the sounds that suggested cardboard boxes were being broken down for recycling. They must have gotten a new delivery. Stacy, at the bar, raised a mug as though to ask if he wanted coffee, and when he shook his head, she simply went back to work.

Bartending was a good job, one he enjoyed. But the work with Mallard certainly gave him new and more difficult things to think about. That was half the reason she kept being able to talk him into it in the first place. She was right; he'd been bored.

And if he didn't have this, he'd be wondering what insanity Patrick was going to pull on them next, and that wasn't useful, at all. Without more information, anything he did or said there would be pointless. Focus on the things he
did
have information about.

Money, missing. Suspects and alibis and motivations, laid out on the table.

“So, oh brain trust, why do people steal?” he asked out loud when Seth came out of the back room again. Seth might be a gossip, but he also had a damn good read on people, and Stacy, well, his barback had surprised him before.

Need is usually the motive, yeah. Either that, or envy or jealousy, but they were talking cash, here. And cash shoved in a drawer somewhere could be serious temptation. If so, then their job was easy: find out who had money problems, and shake them down—discreetly. “Money problems. Right. Who doesn't have money problems, these days?”

“I got no money problems,” Seth said, predictably ignoring the first question and going for the second. “I get it, I spend it, no problem.”

“You probably have a mattress stuffed with hundred-dollar bills, you old faker.” There was no way Seth survived on what Patrick paid him, and he didn't seem to have another job, working a full forty at Mary's already.

He didn't get paid enough himself, either, especially not for the amount of work he did, for the crap Patrick was currently handing out. But he didn't need much, and the share he got from the occasional job with Mallard made a nice little extra, if he was feeling spendy.

“I got nothing boss, sorry,” Stacy said. “I mean, other than I was starving, or was a greedy ass. Or a banker. Was that redundant?”

“We need to find out if any other cash was kept in the office,” he said, ignoring Stacy's usual snark and wishing for Ginny's ever-present tablet and her detailed notes. Not
that he'd ever admit to that. “Stacy, toss me the notebook under the bar, willya?”

She disappeared under the bar, and then tossed him the notebook, and a pen without being asked. In the back room, Seth was now yelling something at Clive that was, mercifully, muffled.

The top sheet of the notebook had “buy more cherries” written in Stacy's slanted script. He tucked that sheet over and started on a new sheet.

“There were credit card decals at the front desk, so people probably pay that way—the adoption fees aren't pocket change.” Fifty dollars for a cat, seventy-five for a dog, the sign had said, which was probably a good deal, he didn't know. The sign had said that all shelter adoptions included nail clipping and de-fleaing. Did Miss Penny have fleas? If so, she'd never shared them. And he had never even thought to clip her claws. Did cats need that?

“Hey, Stacy!” he called. “Do cats need their claws clipped?”

“You're asking me? Do I look like Dr. Doolittle?”

“Yeah, they do.” Clive had overheard the question and leaned his head out to answer. Useless Boy wasn't so useless at all. “I've been doing Penny's.”

“Oh. Thanks, I guess.” She wasn't his cat. There was no reason why he should feel uncomfortable about Clive doing that—or annoyed that she apparently would let him do that.

“Tonica,” a deep male voice called out from the front door, full of confidence that it would be heeded.

“Oh shit,” he heard, and the sound of Clive decamping for the back rooms in the hope that Patrick wouldn't
follow him. Stacy had frozen behind the bar and then, when Patrick didn't seem inclined to say anything to her, kept setting up. He knew that at least half of what she was doing now was busywork, designed to keep her looking busy while she eavesdropped, mainly because he'd taught her the moves himself.

“Afternoon, boss,” he said, sliding the pad and pen to one side and leaning forward on his elbows in movie-perfect bartender pose, even sitting at the table. “What can I do for ya?” Patrick never showed up before open, unless the cops had shown up in response to a break-in—once, since Teddy had started working at Mary's. Then again, Patrick had never tried micromanaging before, either.

Like dealing with Mallard wasn't enough, now Patrick had to get bossy? Someone had it in for him.

“These gentlemen are going to take a look around,” Patrick said, practically strutting across the bar to where Teddy was sitting. “They have my authorization to poke their noses into anything that catches their interest.”

Patrick was somewhere in his fifties, bulk gone to seed and trying to hide it behind bluster and rough charm. The two men with him, trailing several steps behind, were younger, clearly more in touch with current style, and spent money on their clothing and haircuts. He would have pegged them for bankers, except for the shoes. The shoes, although expensive and polished, were designed for men who spent a lot of time on their feet, and not in an office.

He took the card one of them handed him and glanced down at it. Architects.

“Sure. What's up, boss?” He had a cold feeling in his gut that he knew exactly what was up, but it didn't pay to make assumptions.

“Just looking around, making some notes,” the younger of the two visitors said, and Teddy nodded and smiled blandly in return.

“We'll be opening in about half an hour,” he said. “Just try not to trip over a customer.”

After showing his guests around, introducing them genially to Stacy and Clive, Patrick gave a general wave to the room and left, leaving the two men behind. Teddy had gone back to his note-taking, but everyone in the bar was intensely aware of the strangers, disrupting the previously content mood simply by being there. Finally they took their inspection outside, peering at the storefront and making notes. Seth came out of hiding then and stared out the window at them unabashedly. “Who the hell are they and what are they doing?”