Shay O'Hanlon Caper 04 - Chip Off the Ice Block Murder (4 page)

“We can hope.”

JT settled onto her side close to me, her arm resting across my abdomen. “Shut the mind down and sleep, babe.”

I obediently closed my eyes. My last coherent thought was how lucky I was to have found the kind of love JT offered. It was a once in a lifetime thing, and I knew it.

two

Sunday morning arrived bright
and early. After a fast breakfast with JT, I called Kate to tell her I’d be on the way to recover the canines. She answered after four rings, mumbled, “’Kay,” into the phone, and hung up on me. She must have had a doozy of a night.

JT took off for the station at half past nine, intending to see if she could find out why St. Paul PD was nosing around Minneapolis territory. I added a mental note to check around when I got to the bar and see if I could find the gun Sergeant DeSilvero was so hot for.

Initially, I’d briefly thought about closing the Lep for the day if my father hadn’t miraculously reappeared to open up himself. However, the sad state of my dad’s financial affairs, guilt at the thought of abandoning him in his time of need, and worry that something really bad might have happened dictated that I be a good daughter and bring home his bacon.

It took Kate three minutes of my pounding on her door and barking dogs to get her ass out of bed and let me in. She muttered something incoherent, made a U-turn, beelined down the hall into her bathroom, and slammed the door. In the brief glimpse I’d had, the poor thing looked like she woken on the bottom side of hell—one of her eyebrows had looked singed—and her face was whiter than the dingy snow outside. Whatever party she’d attended must have been a doozy.

From Kate’s place the dogs and I headed toward Uptown and Pam’s Pawhouse. A longtime Rabbit Hole customer named Pam Pine owned the place, which was a doggy daycare and pet boarding business. With her genuine smile, huggy arms, and bottomless pockets of treats, both the mutts adored Pam. JT and I did too, not only because she’d come to love our pooches almost more than we did, but because she was a flat-out huge-hearted human. She trained Dawg and Bogey on Canine Good Citizenship—an American Kennel Club program—teaching both JT and me the ins and outs right along with the dogs. Her patience was infinite, which was a godsend because none of the four of us were stellar students.

Dawg and Bogey were scheduled for their own special vacation with Pam and her canine-loving staff. This morning, JT and I discussed the situation and decided there was no reason for our mutts not to enjoy their vacation, even if our getaway was in question. As they say, it’s a dog’s life.

I pulled in and parked in front of the Pawhouse, a squat brick building painted orange and green. Dawg sat up straight and pressed his nose to the passenger window, fogging it with his hot, rather fishy breakfast breath. Bogey lifted his head and woofed once from the back where he’d stretched out, his bulk taking up the entire bench seat. Unless he knew for sure there was something worth getting up for, he wasn’t going to bother.

I uttered the magic words. “Hey guys, we’re gonna go see Pam! Where’s Pam, huh? Where’s Pam?”

Bogey huffed and lumbered to his feet. Dawg’s butt wiggled so hard I could feel the car shake. I grabbed the bag I’d packed with dog food and a couple of their favorite blankets and followed the mad charge to the front door.

A reception desk sat near the entrance of a large, light-chartreuse-painted room that was bisected by a white plastic picket fence three feet high. Behind the fence seven dogs of varying ages and sizes happily bounced around, chewing on and chasing each other. A collapsible yellow tunnel took up one corner, a wall of crates waited for naptime, and various toys were scattered across the floor. This was one place where the four-legged undisputedly ruled.

A long hall down the back held posh boarding suites, a well-equipped groomer’s room, and offices. Out back was a fenced-in yard the size of a basketball court that provided hours of pooch playing pleasure.

As I was dragged through the glass doors, Pam emerged from the back. Her eyes lit up when she saw Bogey and Dawg.

“My boys are here! Happy New Year!” A gigantic, delighted smile spread across her face as she dropped to her knees. I released the leashes and watched the dogs deliriously scramble into her arms, tongues washing her face, slobber flying. The drool didn’t faze her in the least, and after some very soggy puppy love, she glanced up. “Good to see you too.” Pam’s smile faded. “You look wiped. What’s wrong?” Each of her arms was full of dog, and she kept her hands on their heads as she straightened and looked warily at me.

“Long story. My dad’s at it again.”

“Oh, oh. Lay it on me.”

I did, and when I finished, she shook her head. “Shay, I’m so sorry.”

I gave her a wan smile. “We decided there was no reason to deprive Bogey and Dawg of their fun. Besides, maybe he’ll be at the bar with some ridiculous excuse for his absence. We can only hope, right?”

“Absolutely.” She looked down at the two sets of adoring eyes glued to her every move. “Let’s get these two situated and you go see if you can reclaim your vacation.” She held out a hand and I most appreciatively gave her the mutts’ bag. She said, “We’re good here. Go forth and find your father.”

I saluted her and made my exit.

Snow flurries periodically spewed from the heavens as I pulled into the Leprechaun parking lot. I exited the Escape, hit lock on the fob, was rewarded with a grating beep, and trudged to the rear entrance of the bar.

At the door I stopped and took a good look at the old building. At one time I’d helped my father paint the structure white with Kelly-green trim. It sure didn’t feel like it had been that long ago, but the condition of the peeling paint told the real story. Had it been five, maybe ten years ago? Time went by so fast, and it only accelerated the older I got.

Was Dad actually considering selling out? Was he somewhere out there, dead from hypothermia and an overload of hooch?

Maybe he was home. I liked that idea a whole lot better.

I headed up the stairs and rapped my knuckles on the door. Waited a few seconds and knocked again.

No answer, but I’d expected that. I let myself in and did a fast scope of the apartment, which was as devoid of life as it had been the night before.

I pulled the front door shut and locked it. Cold air stung my cheeks and the covered stairway shuddered under my weight as I descended two at a time. I needed to focus on one problem at a time or my head was going to explode.
Forward, Shay, don’t look back.
The first order of business was to get the bar up and running by noon.

I keyed the lock, and the kitchen door skittered open with a reluctant squawk. I stepped inside and experimentally swung the door back and forth a few times. It screeched with every movement. Huh. My dad was usually anal about upkeep. Normally he would have attended to such an easily fixable issue—a couple of squirts of WD-40 should take care of it.

I thought about that.

The rundown façade of the bar, the sticking door, and the ungodly stench that assaulted my nasal passages as I stepped inside made no sense. Had I been so caught up in my own life that I’d neglected to see telltale signs my father was slipping? Was I somehow responsible for this because I hadn’t been paying attention?

I forced myself to focus on the here and now and forget the rest. First things first: I had to refrain from throwing up all over the tile floor. The malodorous fumes that choked me as soon as I stepped inside had to be coming from the drainpipe under the sink. My eyes watered and I clapped a hand over my nose. I headed into the bar itself, where the smell faded, and wandered around turning on lights, TVs, and ceiling fans. What had the delivery guy said last night? Something about the aromatic cellar. Maybe the source of the problem was coming from there.

I headed back into the kitchen to the basement door. I pulled it open, and nearly gagged again.

The chunky brick wall was rough against my fingertips as I groped for the light switch. With a loud click, a single bulb illuminated a narrow stairway. Cautiously, I made my way down the steep steps with the collar of my sweatshirt pulled over my nose and mouth. Four light fixtures hung from the ceiling and did little to chase shadows from the cobwebby corners of the subterranean space. The cellar was definitely not a favorite hangout. I had always gotten the creeps whenever I descended into the dank dimness, and today was no exception.

My father stored the bulk of the liquor and other odds and ends down here. It was cool in the summer, cold in the winter, and usually smelled of must and liquor. Now those odors were overpowered by sewer stench so strong I nearly retched every time I breathed in.

Cases of booze were stacked on rolling wire shelves that lined the perimeter of the room. Each shelf held a hand-printed card with the type of liquor or beer that was stored there. The Summit driver had stacked a double row of boxes containing the popular ale down the center of the cellar. Otherwise everything else looked in order except for the back right corner of the damp space. The shelving had been rolled away to create an inverted square. An old window fan sat nearby, plugged into an ancient brown extension cord coming from a receptacle embedded in the closest light socket.

I rolled one of the shelves out of the way and took two steps closer. My hand was back over my face, and I sucked the tainted air through my mouth. Black sludge had oozed up from a four-foot crack in the cement floor. The sludge had started to creep across the cement.

My father must have been using the fan to try to disseminate the smell. I didn’t hold much hope that it would do much good, but turned it on anyway. We needed the Roto-Rooter man in a very bad way.

three

The minute hand on
the Lucky Strike clock edged ever closer to the twelve as I hustled to finish prepping the bar. After chopping celery stalks, I topped off the olive and cherry containers in the garnish trays.

I was about to unlock the front door when it dawned on me I’d forgotten to pull the start bank from the floor safe in my father’s office. Last night when I put away the New Year’s Eve proceeds, it was a huge relief to find he maintained his security interests by never changing combinations or passwords. They were all still they same as they’d always been.

In less than a minute I was back behind the bar, stuffing bills into the till drawer as I tried to remember what else I was forgetting.

Then it dawned on me. The gun. I’d entirely forgotten to look for my dad’s revolver. I ducked down and sifted through the detritus under the bar. Where I thought my old man used to stash the weapon now shelved extra glassware and a dishwasher. I systematically searched the rest of the area without success. It must be stashed elsewhere these days. Whatever.

With a frustrated grunt I straightened.

12:02 p.m. Show time.

The deadbolt on the heavy, windowless front door retracted easily. I gave the door a good shove to make sure it was open.

As it swung outward, I heard a grunt, followed by a thud and a muffled “Oof!”

“What on earth?” I muttered and I warily stuck my head around the door.

The first thing I saw on the ice-covered sidewalk were the soles of a pair of black snow boots. I’d face-planted a probable customer with the door.

“Oh my god. I’m so sorry.” My heart hammered hard against my ribs.
Way to go, Shay. You’ve now given your dad a personal injury lawsuit in addition to the problems he already has.
The person was probably going to whip out a mobile phone and dial 1-800-411-PAIN.

“Shay! What are you doing here?” My vic was apparently a woman, and she batted at the fur-lined hood of her poofy black coat to push it away from her face.

“Agnes? That you under all those layers?”

Agnes Zaluski was an old friend with a troublemaking nephew. The previous spring we’d bailed said nephew out of some fishy water, and Agnes had taken a platonic shine to my father. Or, to be more specific, had taken a shine to the card games he conducted in his back room. It didn’t hurt that Agnes enjoyed her vodka as much as my father enjoyed his scotch. Two peas in an alcohol-infused pod.

I said, “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

“With the exception of my bruised nose, I’m fine. Help this old lady up.”

I slid my arms under her armpits and hoisted her to her feet. Despite her years, Agnes still towered well over my own height of five-seven.

She wobbled a little and I hung on as she regained her equilibrium.

“Easy.”

“I’m okay. Nothing new to this ancient posterior of mine.” With a grimace she patted her jacket-covered butt and gave me a shove toward the door.

Once we were safely inside, Agnes hiked herself onto the closest bar stool and shrugged out of her Pillsbury Doughboy replica jacket with a resounding “Uff da.” She draped the coat over the adjacent stool and rubbed her hands together. “So where is that scallywag father of yours?”

“Wish I knew. He no-showed last night and still hasn’t come up for air.”

Agnes squinted, her thin face reminiscent of Professor McGonagall’s from the Harry Potter movies. “Really? He was raring to go for New Year’s Eve! Night before last he was preoccupied during our game trying to make sure everything was in order.” She leveled me a calculating look. “How about a little squirt of the hard stuff since you bowled me head over keister?”

“Sure.” I rounded the bar. There wasn’t much involved in fixing Agnes her “squirt.” I dumped a good amount of vodka straight into a glass and asked, “Did you have a good game?”

“It’s poker. You know how poker is. It’s always good. Especially here.”

I did know. My dad and his weekly games were legendary.

I placed the shot in front of her, and Agnes tossed it back. She didn’t flinch as she swallowed.

“Have you been playing often?” I asked, genuinely curious and a little surprised, although I shouldn’t have been. The previous spring I’d distracted Agnes from her nephew Baz’s shenanigans by stowing her and Eddy Quartermaine—the woman who owned the Victorian that housed the Rabbit Hole, and my pseudo-mom—with my father while Coop, Baz, and I nearly got ourselves executed during a drug cartel shootout.

My dad, in usual form, had organized a back room poker game on the fly, making both Agnes and Eddy very happy. It was no secret Agnes loved poker almost as much as she loved her Stoli, but I hadn’t realized she’d become a regular participant in my father’s circle.

“Oh yes.” Agnes muffled a belch behind her hand. “Every week.”

“Did Da
d seem okay? Not depressed, or … ” I trailed off and shrugged.

“
Pete was darn-tootin’ good. He won, which added up to a whopping booty of seventy-six bucks. When I left, the bunch of them were talking about Roy’s kid’s chances running for mayor of Minneapolis.”

Roy Larson was one of my father’s closest friends. He was a Twin Cities fixture and a real character. He claimed to be a many-times-removed relative of Herbert Sellner, the man who invented the Tilt-A-Whirl. Every August when the State Fair came to St. Paul for twelve days of deep-fried food on a stick, carnival rides, and meltingly hot weather, Roy repeated the tale of Herbie’s debut of the venerable Tilt-A-Whirl at the 1927 Great Minnesota Get-Together.

Roy’s son Greg, while not quite as quirky as his dad, was still an odd duck. He was a few years older than I was. We’d gone to the same high school, but he had graduated before I landed there. His run for mayor was interesting in light of his father’s political and rather unique business history.

Roy Larson had started his business career as the owner of the bar that would eventually become the Leprechaun. My father purchased the joint from him back in the Seventies. Roy sold out to finance a failed bid for the highest office in the state, going up against the very popular Rudy Perpich. He was soundly trounced and quietly retreated back into the business world, eventually managing to build himself something of an empire in the development and production of biodegradable kitty litter. Larson’s Super Clump Flush-Away Cat Litter was a regional semi-success, as long as you were careful not to put too much of it down your toilet.

Personally, I wondered if Greg was running for mayor to try to fulfill his dad’s lifelong—and lost—dream of holding political office.

I asked, “Who else was playing that night?”

“Let me think.” Agnes searched her vodka-soaked brain and ticked names off on the fingers of her right hand. “Me, your dad, a young coot—Brian Eckhart, I think his name was. Roy, the Vulc, and … ” Her lips pressed together so hard that the red of her lipstick stood out in stark contrast to the white, bloodless ring of wrinkly skin around her mouth. “Who else?” Agnes frowned and tapped her fingers on the bar top.

Brian Eckhart was an ex-cop who now worked in security. He met my dad a couple years back after responding to an attempted till tap at the Leprechaun. Although he hadn’t managed to track down the potential robber, Brian had become a regular after-hours poker participant.

The Vulc, better known as Mick Simon, was a river man who worked with my dad on the Mississippi. He looked like a year-round Santa Claus. Somewhere in the late ’90s or early 2000s, he’d been Vulcanus Rex, the St. Paul Winter Carnival’s God of Fire.

“Oh!” Agnes startled me out of my own reverie as she tried to snap arthritic fingers. “Harvey Benjamin and Limpy Dick.” She nodded. “That’s it.”

“Who’s Harvey Benjamin?”

“You haven’t heard of old Hemorrhoid Harvey?”

“Can’t say I have.” Nor was I sure I wanted to.

Agnes scrutinized my face. “Don’t suppose you would. You’re too young. But you just wait.” She chortled in a rather terrifying way. “Harvey’s the owner of Benjamin’s Drugstore in Richfield. Kind of like Merwin Drug in Robbinsdale. Not that Merwin’s is there anymore though,” she said wistfully. “Oh, Merwin’s. They had the best soda fountain in the back. When I was a kid, we’d head there for malteds after some hot and heavy necking at the drive-in. Hoo boy.” She shuddered and fanned her face.

Thinking about Agnes making out with someone was as bad as thinking about my parents having sex. Agnes patted my hand. “Benjamin’s focuses on the needs of us senior types,” she said. “He has some of the best hemorrhoid creams anywhere. That’s where he gets his nickname. Now if only Harvey would put a soda fountain in … ”

Agnes droned on, extolling the virtues and pitfalls of ice cream, butt cream, and eventually denture cream. I certainly didn’t need to know in such stark detail the bodily malfunctions of the senior set, but out of respect I did try not to make a face.

I nodded and smiled and turned my mind to Limpy Dick instead. His name was actually Richard Zaros, another guy who’d worked with my father back in the day. He was probably one of the most eccentric and definitely the craziest of my dad’s friends. Long ago, he’d lost two fingers in a barge accident. Another time his left leg was pinned and crushed between a barge and a pier. It had to be removed below the knee. Now he was one half of South Africa’s Blade Runner.

During the time that I’d talked to Agnes, a few additional patrons had drifted in. A number of them were wearing the drooping, squinty-eyed look that indicated a whopper of a New Year’s Day hangover.

A college-aged couple sauntered to one of the booths at the back of the bar, and three slack-faced guys parked themselves a few stools apart from each other at the bar. All these customers were a good thing, but they made me feel trapped. What I really wanted to do was look for my dad. I refreshed Agnes’s glass with another squirt and wandered off to make my father some money.

Things picked up considerably by late afternoon.

Agnes had caught a cab some time ago. It was a good thing, because her complimentary shots were putting a serious dent in the Stoli bottle.

I pulled an on-the-house pitcher for the Shamrock O’Taters—one of the co-rec broomball teams my father sponsored—and weaved through the crowded floor to deliver it amid catcalls and friendly insults. Earlier in afternoon, the Taters won a game against a rival neighborhood tavern, and the crew was in full celebratory mode. For a long time, I’d played broomball with the Taters, until Kate and I sponsored our own team through the Rabbit Hole. Now, when I had an opportunity to hop into a game and work my aggressions out on the ice, I tried to pick games against them. The crew all still liked me, but it didn’t take long before a friendly rivalry ensued.

Instead of taking a few minutes to sit and catch up with my ex-teammates, resentment and duty coiled around each other. Duty pro
pelled me to keep working. Of course, rancorous pangs really
shredded my gut when I thought about the cozy, unoccupied room at the bed-and-breakfast in Duluth where JT and I were supposed to be getting away from it all.

My father was a selfish bastard, and I was worried sick about him.

Along with the buzz of chattering voices, the heavy beats of “American Woman” thumped in the background for the fourth consecutive time. Whoever was plugging the juke had a serious case of relationship woes.

I snagged empties and pushed chairs in, straightening up as I made my way behind the bar. Beer bottles clanged loudly against each other as I dumped them into the recycling bin. I scanned the customers lined up on bar stools, assessing who needed help, who had reached their limit, and who needed a refresh.

A man animatedly waved a folded bill in front of me, and I pivoted toward him. Before I could move, someone put a hand on my forearm.

I was surprised to see Lisa Vecoli tucked up against the bar.

“Hey,” I said and I swung back to face her. “You recover from last night?”

A smile crinkled the corners of her eyes as she surveyed the room. “Oh yeah. It’s been awhile since I’ve had that much fun.”

I couldn’t tell if she was being serious or sarcastic.

She finished her assessment of the crowd, probably looking for the presumably preoccupied Pete. “I assume if you’re running the bar, your father still hasn’t turned up?”

“Nope.” I gave her an apologetically wry grin, still not understanding why she was so damned determined to talk to my dad. “What is it you need him for?”

An emotion I couldn’t identify flickered across Lisa’s face, and for a moment I thought she was going to spill it.

“It’s … well, it’s a story.”

“Hey, lady!” The guy who’d tried to flag me down was getting antsy. “Can I get some help down here, for chrissake?”

“Hang ON!” I yelled at him and refocused on Lisa. My customer service score was going to be in the toilet.

She said, “Tell you what. Let me give you a hand and later on maybe we can sit down and talk. But,” she nodded at Mr. Impatient, “let’s get him taken care of before he goes all whoop on your ass.”

After Lisa’s successful audition last night, I’d be an idiot to turn her down. I was going to have to pay her well for her services.

Forty-five minutes and a number of happier patrons later, we’d conquered the masses and worked ourselves into a sort of equilibrium. I wondered what JT was doing and if Coop was on his feet yet. They might still be wiped from New Year’s revelry, but at least they were free while I was stuck here taking care of Daddy’s business. When my father showed his face, he was going to get a serious piece of my mind. If I had any mind left.

During a lull in the action, I leaned against the edge of the bar, stuck my lip out, and blew air onto my damp face.

Lisa propped herself next to me. She grabbed onto the edge of the countertop and arched her back with a groan. “I have to admit I’m not used to being on my feet so many hours at a time anymore.”

I wondered what she did now, but she’d obviously tended bar sometime in her past. She hadn’t lied when she’d said she knew how to pour. I was sure the lull in thirsty customers wouldn’t last long enough for a conversation beyond “pass me the Jim Beam,” so I simply said, “I hear you.” My own body felt as if I’d climbed the rock wall at the gym fifteen times too many. I allowed a half-smile and took a critical look out at the main floor. There were actually a few empty bar stools, and maybe half the tables were occupied. The tide was starting to turn in our favor.