The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle (22 page)

S
unday morning was busy with the brunch I'd organized for a group from our sister city in Bulgaria that the community college had brought to town, but the afternoon was low-key. I lazed around my folks' house, helping make dinner and discussing books with my mom, who'd managed to read and review six this week, despite her new pub responsibilities. The pub was closed on Sundays, and I think we were all relieved to have a day off. I filled Derek in on my investigative efforts when he returned from playing basketball with some friends. He listened intently while I related Maud's efforts to trick Foster into a confession, and laughed about the beer spill.

“Yeah, you can laugh,” I said. “I'll send you the dry-cleaning bill.”

“And I'll pay it, right after I pay my lawyer,” he responded. “So, 2022?” He slung an arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “Seriously, thanks for trying. You're the only one who is. I sure don't get the feeling the cops are out there busting their butts to find another suspect.”

There was nothing to say to that, so I changed the subject. “How are Peri and Zach doing at the pub?” I
asked. My shifts hadn't overlapped with theirs. Peri was the family klutz from way back, so I was curious.

“Zach's not much for chatting up the customers, so I've got him supervising in the kitchen,” Mom said. “Peri—my little chatterbox—is very popular, and she's doing a good job behind the bar, although our breakage rate is up slightly. I've got you down to work tomorrow evening,” Mom told me, “with Bernie and Kolby.” She forestalled my objections. “Now, I know that boy's not the hardest worker, but his daddy just died and he deserves our consideration. I told him we'd keep him on for two weeks and reevaluate then.”

“Great,” I said unenthusiastically.

•   •   •

Work on Monday was interrupted by Derek's lawyer, Doug Elvaston, and Hart, in that order.

Courtney called first, wanting to know if I'd had any further thoughts about Derek's case. I told her about Foster and Anita and our attempt to get a confession or something incriminating out of Foster.

She took our failure in good part. “They're still viable suspects,” she said. “Reasonable doubt. That's my mantra, baby, reasonable doubt.”

She rang off and Doug swung by. He brought me a coffee, doctored just the way I liked it, and stayed to chat for fifteen minutes. He'd added a couple of clients
to his caseload, he was enjoying his new life off the corporate hamster wheel, and Madison had called to apologize for ditching him at the altar.

“Big of her,” I observed, blowing on my coffee and observing him through my lashes. His tan had faded a bit already, but he still looked more relaxed than I'd seen him in years.

He grinned at my tone. “Yeah, well. She wants to stay friends, says to give her a call next time I'm in New York.”

“And will you?” If he said yes, I was done with him. I wasn't going to watch him let Madison stomp all over his heart with her stiletto heels.

“Hell no. I've learned my lesson. Even though I am pretty good about staying friends with my exes.” He waggled his brows at me.

“Plural?”

“Well, no. Just you.”

The look in his eyes warmed me.
Uh-oh
. “I've got to work,” I said, bending over the file on my desk. “So, shoo.”

“Maybe we could hang out this weekend?” He lingered in the doorway.

I looked up. Those green eyes could still melt me. “Uh, I think Hart and I have plans,” I heard myself say, even though we didn't.

He shrugged it off and flashed a smile. “Another time.”

After he left, I continued to stare at the empty doorway. Decision time had come and gone. I hadn't been ready for it, hadn't thought about it, but when it came
to it, I went with Hart. Spontaneously. Satisfied with myself, I hummed as I worked my way down the list for Troy Widefield's state senate announcement event.

“‘Da Doo Ron Ron'?” Hart asked, appearing in the doorway. The way he slouched against the jamb was eerily reminiscent of Doug's presence there not half an hour ago. “Who even remembers the Crystals?”

I quit humming. His question was lighthearted, but his expression was more serious. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” I asked, standing. He remained in the doorway, hands shoved into the pocket of his charcoal slacks. I could hear Al talking on the phone in the reception area.

“Foster Quinlan came in this morning to complain about you ‘stalking' him,” he said.

“He did not!” It had never crossed my mind that Foster would go to the police about me. If it had, I would have dismissed the idea, figuring he wouldn't want to draw any attention to himself.

“He did.” A lift of Hart's brows questioned me.

“Al and I happened to have a drink at the Long Shot last night after an event broke up early,” I said, fiddling with my pen. “Foster was there and recognized me.”

“Despite your hat and sunglasses,” Hart said drily. “Oh yes.” He correctly interpreted my expression. “He told me you were in disguise.”

“I didn't do anything to him,” I said. “Didn't accost him or follow him home or accuse him of anything.” I paced two steps in each direction, relieved that I hadn't let Maud talk me into tapping Foster's phone.

Hart held up his hands against my heated words.
“Calm down. I explained to him that your presence in the bar did not constitute stalking. You need to back off, though. What with interviewing his wife the other day, and the bar last night . . . you need to steer clear of Foster Quinlan. I told you I'll talk to him, and I will. I got in a few questions while he was complaining about you, and it certainly doesn't feel as if either he or his wife has rock-solid alibis for last Friday. I'll follow up.”

I paused in my pacing and gave him a rueful look. “It was stupid, right?”

“You love your brother and you're trying to help him,” he said, with the hint of a smile. “We all do stupid things for love.”

“Have you?” I asked, sure from the expression on his face that he was remembering something specific.

“Most definitely,” he said.

“You're not going to tell me, are you?”

He shook his head. “Not a chance.”

“It can't be that bad,” I coaxed.

“Not bad, just embarrassing on an Olympic scale.”

“You have to tell me now!”

He shook his head, smiling, and pointed his finger at me. “No more sniffing around Foster Quinlan or his wife, okay? I don't want to have to arrest you.”

“And I don't want to be arrested,” I concurred, letting that serve as my agreement to stop pestering Foster.

“Any chance you're free one night this week?” he asked, lowering his voice so Al wouldn't overhear.

“I'm bartending again tonight,” I said morosely. “Between working at the pub and last night, I'm
beginning to feel like I spend more time in bars than at home. Not good, right?”

“It's for a good cause,” he said.

“I know.” I glanced at the schedule on the whiteboard, even though I knew it by heart. “I can do tomorrow or Thursday, and there are no events next Sunday, either.”

“Dinner on Tuesday.” He smiled in a way that made heat curl in my belly.

As soon as Hart left, Al scooted into the office. “Are we in trouble for last night?” he asked. “I couldn't help overhearing part of what the detective said.”

“Not you, just me,” I said. “And not in very much trouble. That weasel Foster Quinlan told the police I was stalking him.”

“What a douche. So we're not going to try again?” He sounded disappointed that his spy career was over before he got to sample his first martini shaken, not stirred.

Shaking my head loosed a strand of hair and I tucked it back into my French braid. “Nuh-uh. Hart says he'll follow up, and I believe him.”

“Just as well,” Al said philosophically. He straightened his bow tie. “I'm falling behind in my accounting class. Would you mind if I left a couple of hours early today? I've got a big test tomorrow. The only thing outstanding for tomorrow's barbecue is to make sure the propane tanks get delivered, and I can take care of that in the morning.”

“No problem.” I made a note to call Axie, which I hadn't gotten around to yet. It would be perfect if she
could do a few hours in the office each week, spelling me and Al. She wasn't old enough to do events, but she could answer the phone, schedule meetings, and the like. I could give her more responsibility if she liked the work and proved reliable. The last thought made me grin: No way would Lola let her
not
be reliable.

I
n my usual reliable way, I showed up at Elysium a few minutes before my shift started at five. If this went on for much longer, I was going to get myself an orange shirt with my own name on it; I was tired of being “Sam.” Mom had called to say she and my dad were held up in Grand Junction, where they'd gone to visit the pub's main food vendor, and they asked me to take charge until they could arrive. Derek, Mom said, was at Courtney's office, meeting with her and her investigator. I poked my nose into the kitchen, to let the staff know I was there, and returned to the bar, which was devoid of customers on a Monday evening. I was grateful that Derek was short a bartender and not a kitchen worker; I could handle mixing a few drinks and pouring pitchers of beer, but flipping burgers and dunking fries in oil was not a skill I had ever acquired.

To my great surprise, Kolby was already behind the bar when I emerged from the kitchen, albeit texting rather than working. His blondish hair hung lankly over his collar, but his thumbs flew with more energy than I'd seen him commit to any paying task. I told him to put the device away and bring in a new keg of the Demons IPA. He gave me a disgruntled look, but complied. I disconnected the empty one while waiting for
him to return. He reappeared with the keg on a dolly as Bernie came through the door. An adolescent boy trailed her, moving stiffly in a walking cast.

“Sorry I'm late,” Bernie apologized, shoving her sunglasses into her corkscrewing hair. “And sorry about Billy here. He's supposed to be with his father, but Jackson got called out on an emergency, so he can't get him until later. My sitter wasn't available, so I had to bring him with. My little guy's at a sleepover with a buddy, but I didn't have anywhere to leave Billy. I hope it's okay if he waits here somewhere?” She gave me an anxious look. “He promises to behave, don't you, Billy?” She nudged the boy.

“You don't need to say that all the time, Mom, not in front of other people.” He shuffled his feet and managed to look both embarrassed and defiant. He had crew cut hair and freckled jug ears, and looked a lot like the way I'd always pictured Tom Sawyer. He peeped at me from under sandy lashes. “There's pool tables, right? I could play pool until Dad gets here.” His pleading gaze went from his mother to me.

“I don't see why not,” I said.

A grin lit his face. He was an engaging kid and I smiled. “How are you going to play pool with your leg in a cast like that?” My eyes went to his foot. The plaster extended from just above his grubby toes to midshin. Orange tape covered most of it. It looked just like Roman's . . .

My eyes widened as I made a connection that upended all my previous theories about Gordon's murder. The truth plowed into me with the force of a
boulder hurtling down a hill. I swallowed and looked from Billy to Bernie, who didn't seem to sense my new discomfort. “I'm sure it'll be okay if you hang out in the pool lounge,” I said. “There's no one up there yet. Take the elevator.” I pointed to it.

“I'll show him,” Kolby volunteered, having off-loaded the new keg and moved it into position. He brushed hair off his face. I had a feeling he was also volunteering to waste an hour playing pool with an eleven-year-old.

“Thanks,” Bernie said, giving me a grateful look as Billy thumped his way to the elevator, already chattering to Kolby as if he'd known him for years. “I don't like playing the single-mom card, but sometimes it's the only one I'm holding.”

I didn't know how to say what I needed to say, so I started obliquely. “They do a good job with broken bones at Alliance Urgent Care, don't they? I had to take a friend's son there a few nights ago and I was impressed with their efficiency.”

“Yeah, they do a good job,” Bernie agreed, putting her purse behind the bar. She grabbed a wet rag and began to scrub at a spot on the gleaming surface. “The docs are real good with Billy.”

“You told me you didn't know Angie Dreesen, but if Billy gets hurt as often as you say, you must know her.”

Silence followed my statement. Bernie's hand slowed until she was merely holding the rag pressed against the bar. Finally, she looked up at me. Her eyes
were brown pools of worry and guilt, but she didn't say anything.

“You were late last Friday, too. You said you'd had car trouble. Gene Dreesen didn't get to the party until late, too.” I suddenly realized I'd seen Gene get into a car with Angie when they left the party—if he'd arrived late, why wasn't his car still in the lot when I left much later? “He told the police he helped someone with a flat tire. I'm betting that someone was you, only you didn't really have a flat, did you? You told the police you did, though—you gave Gene Dreesen an alibi for the time Gordon was killed. Why, Bernie? Why?”

Every muscle in her body seemed to quiver and for a moment I thought she was going to bolt. The futility of it must have struck her—Billy was upstairs, after all—because the tension melted away and she went as limp as a rag doll. I knew then she was going to tell me everything.

“You're right. I've known Dr. Dreesen for a few years now. She's treated Billy for everything from ear infections to broken bones. Kids always seem to get hurt or sick in the middle of the night or on a weekend when the family doc is playing golf or asleep in bed, right?” She tried to smile, but it was a poor effort. “This last time, with Billy's ankle, we got to talking. Gordon . . . Gordon and I . . . I'd thought Dr. Dreesen and I were going to be sisters-in-law, you know? Gawd, was I a fool!” She put her elbows on the bar and dropped her face into her hands. “He cheated on me with Sam, just like he'd cheated on some other woman
with me. I don't know why I thought he'd be different with me. Any woman who was ever the ‘other woman' and thinks her man will behave differently once he's hers is a fool. Tattoo it on my forehead.” She slapped a hand to her forehead. “F.O.O.L.

“He dumped me the same day Billy broke his ankle. I broke down at the clinic, burst into tears, told Dr. Dreesen everything. I told her how I loved Gordon and had believed him when he said he was going to take care of me and the kids. You don't know how that felt, Amy-Faye, looking forward to not having to scrimp and scrape and save and do without all the time. I wanted to get Billy a pair of jeans that didn't come from Goodwill, to sign Chester up for Little League. I don't mind working, but I thought I could drop back to one job when Gordon and I were married, and have more time to spend with the boys. They need me.”

She turned her head to look at me, her eyes begging me to understand. Tears streamed down her face.

“I'm sorry,” I said, aching with the inadequacy of it.

“Gordon dangled that new life in front of me, and then he jerked it away.” Her mouth tightened into a thin line. “I was hurt, but I was also angry. So angry. Gawd.”

She used her palms to rub her tears away so hard I thought she'd tear skin from her face. I passed her a handful of bar napkins to use as tissues.

“So when Dr. Dreesen suggested . . . suggested
it
, and offered to pay me to give Gene an alibi, I said yes. They gave me ten thousand dollars,” Bernie said, straightening and looking me in the eye. “Ten
thousand dollars to be late for work, to wait for them to call before I showed up, and then to tell the police if they asked that Gene had stopped to help me change a flat tire. Ten thousand dollars for one little lie.”

My expression must have accused her of more because she said, “I didn't kill Gordon! I didn't even know for sure they were going to—” She couldn't go on. She shook like she was freezing.

“Would you have let Derek go to prison?” I asked, anger getting the better of me for a moment.

“No! No, I . . . of course not. I'd have—it wouldn't have come to that. They had no proof. He wouldn't have been convicted.” Her teeth chattered.

Most of my sympathy for her evaporated. Not that I was sympathetic toward murder, but I could see how she'd gotten to the point where she could convince herself that telling a lie for enough money to make her boys' lives better was an acceptable moral trade-off. Letting an innocent man go to prison for the crime, though . . . there was no way she could justify that.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Hart without taking my eyes off Bernie. “I'm at Elysium,” I said when he answered. “You need to come here. It's important.”

Something in my voice must have convinced him, because he didn't ask any questions. “On my way,” he said.

“Want a drink?” I asked Bernie when I hung up. “On the house.”

“A Coke.”

She waited while I put ice in a glass and filled it from the soda hose. Taking long, thirsty gulps as the glass clinked against her teeth, she said, “Don't tell Billy, okay? I mean . . .” Realization dawned. “Oh my Gawd, what will happen to Billy and Chet? I won't go to jail, will I? Not for telling a lie? Do I need a lawyer?”

I couldn't tell her what was likely to happen, but I advised her to get a lawyer and to call someone who could look after Billy and his little brother for a couple of days, at least.

“I can't call my ex. He'll use this to take the boys away from me.” Panic filled her eyes as the full range of consequences opened like a bottomless pit in front of her. “My sister, maybe she can come.” She made a couple of frantic phone calls while we waited for Hart.

I served the first three customers through the door, filling a pitcher with beer, chatting, and swiping the credit card on autopilot. They moved toward a table, laughing and joking, when Hart came through the door. His eyes asked a question. I cut my eyes toward Bernie, sobbing into her cell phone. His brows rose and I nodded in confirmation. When he reached the bar, I gave him the thirty-second version of what Bernie had told me, and then introduced him to her. He led her to a booth, where they talked. I kept an eye on them as I served a trickle of customers, but they were too far away for me to hear anything and their profiles didn't
tell me much. After ten minutes, Hart approached me again, leaving Bernie slumped in the booth.

“I've got to take her in,” he said in a low voice. “She says her sister is coming from Rifle to pick up her son. I can send a social worker if you don't want to be responsible for him until then. It could be an hour.” He quirked a questioning eyebrow.

“No, it's okay. He can stay here. What do I tell him?” The thought panicked me. How do you tell an eleven-year-old his mom has been arrested for—what?—conspiracy to commit murder?

“I'm going to give her five minutes with him,” he said. “She can tell him what she wants to. How did you get onto her?” he asked.

“It was the cast.” I told him how I'd figured it out. I thought about how Maud or one of the others had said to look for connections people didn't know about, like the ones between Poirot's suspects, when trying to ID the murderer. Since our body-dragging experiment on Maud's deck, I'd been thinking in terms of two people killing Gordon. I'd focused on Foster and Anita because they were so noisy about hating Gordon, but Angie and Gene Dreesen had much more powerful motives for wanting him dead: their daughter's death at his hands (as they thought), the blow to Gene's business, the lawsuits back and forth, even pent-up hatred and envy from Angie's childhood.

He shook his head, smiling in admiration and disbelief when I finished. “First time I've heard of a criminal being tripped up by orange tape,” he said. “I hope Derek appreciates you.”

Thinking of Derek filled me with joy. “Can I tell him?”

Hart hesitated but then said, “I don't see why not. It might take a couple of days for the DA to formally drop the charges, but you can let him and his lawyer know that I'm arresting Ms. Kloster and will shortly be picking up Angie and Gene Dreesen for questioning. Even if they don't confess, I'm sure we'll be able to follow the money trail. That ten thousand and the clinic's records will tie them to Ms. Kloster.”

“And Gene's car wasn't in the parking lot,” I said.

“What?”

“The Friday it happened. I waited in the parking lot until you were done with Derek. By the time he came out, there were no cars there except police cars. I saw Gene go home with Angie in her Lexus, so where was his car if he came late after helping Bernie?”

“A very good question,” Hart said. “I'll be sure to ask him. We're still on for tomorrow night, right?”

“Most definitely.” Derek would be cleared by then, with any luck, and we'd really have something to celebrate. A smile took over my face.

Hart patted the bar twice and returned to Bernie, leading her upstairs to talk to Billy. They returned less than ten minutes later, Bernie staring blindly ahead as he guided her down the stairs and out the door. He'd been discreet enough that I didn't think any of the customers knew an arrest had taken place under their noses. I appreciated his consideration for Bernie and for the pub's bottom line. Although—who knows?—an arrest might be a plus for business.

I thought about calling Derek, but wanted to break the news in person. I was on tenterhooks until Bernie's sister, easily identified by the spirals of sandy hair crowning her head, burst through the door, asking, “Where's Billy?”

I abandoned the bar for a few minutes to lead her upstairs to the pool area. When she had collected Billy and hustled the subdued boy downstairs, Kolby trailed me back to the bar, a suspicious frown tweaking his brows together.

“What's going on?” he asked. “First that cop drags Bernie out of here, and then that other woman—her sister?—hauls Billy away. What gives?”

I bit my lip, wondering what I should tell him. I finally decided on the truth. Gordon was his father and he deserved to know. “Bernie might have had something to do with your dad's death,” I said. “The police need to talk to her.”