Death in Tranquility, page 2
He looked up.
“5’7” and at a healthy weight,” I supplied. “If I’m charged with something, we’ll get more specific.”
“Age?”
Did he really need to know all of this? “Twenties,” I said, waiting to see if he’d have the gall to object. He didn’t.
“Best way to reach you?”
I gave him my cell number.
“Permanent address?”
“I don’t have one.”
He looked up.
“I’m in the process of moving from California to New York. I’m only in town to change trains. I don’t have a New York address yet.”
“A relative’s address?”
I held up my phone. “This is your golden ticket,” I said. “If you want to reach me, this is it.”
I saw him write ‘no known address.’ Yep, that pretty much summed it up. I glanced at my watch. Seven minutes until my train pulled into—and, soon after, departed from—the station.
“Um, Detective,” I started.
“Investigator Spaulding,” he corrected.
“Investigator Spaulding, my train is about to arrive. I don’t know anything except what I’ve told you. I came in for a drink and helped Marta find the bartender, whom I hope died of a massive heart attack—well, of natural causes. You know what I mean.”
At that point, his phone buzzed and he gave me a just-a-minute finger. He answered, listened for a while, and started to write. Then he hung up, flipped his notebook shut and said, “I can’t let you leave. He was murdered.”
“Great,” I said, the tone somewhere between rueful and intrigued, as I headed back toward Marta, then I turned back toward Investigator Spaulding. “Can I continue to pour drinks?”
He considered less than a moment. “By all means, serve truth serum to anyone who will imbibe.”
Then he turned and walked toward the other officers.
I went to stand with Marta behind the bar. In my imagination, I heard the train chug in across the street.
Investigator Spaulding cleared his throat, and the room went silent. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “This is now a homicide investigation.” He had to pause as everyone shuffled or gasped, or cried out. “Please do not leave until we have taken your statement.”
A woman in her fifties came and sat down in front of me at the bar. Her hair was in a no-fuss bob, she wore a free-flowing skirt with a linen jacket, both of which were in style twenty years ago, but they worked on her. “Got anything stronger than those Death things?” she asked. “I’m not big on Champagne.”
“Sure.” I said. I sized her up. “Layers in a martini glass work for you?”
“Honey, it’s the strength, not the glass.” She looked shaken and sad. I went for the rums and found Malibu Black, the stronger brother of the original. What a bartender Joseph must have been! I decided to try something new. Malibu Black, mango pineapple vodka, and pineapple juice. I mixed it over ice, shook, and poured. I sank some Chambord and topped it with Jägermeister Spice.
“See if this does it,” I said.
Her hand shook slightly as she held up the glass, appreciated the layers, and then took a sip. The jury was out. She took another. She nodded and smiled.
It occurred to me that everyone in the room knew Joseph. They’d lost one of their own.
Another woman in skinny white pants and a white shell with a fancy pink sports jacket came and sat next to her. They were about the same age, if I had to guess, but the new woman was thin as a rail, muscular, and with her blonde hair in a ponytail. I was guessing she colored her hair not from a darker shade, but to cover the white. The two women embraced. “Suzanne,” said the new arrival.
“Gillian,” said no-fuss-bob Suzanne. Then, “Can’t believe it.”
“I can’t, either,” replied hard-bodied Gillian. She had the remains of an Eastern European accent. They sat a respectful moment. “What are you drinking?”
Suzanne looked at me. “No Known Address,” I said.
“Okay,” Gillian said. “I’ll have one.” She then turned and I was dismissed to my task.
“I can’t believe it. One of the only straight, available guys between forty and crotchety, and he’s gone!” said Suzanne.
“There’s Mike,” Gillian said, tilting her head toward the state police investigator. “And I’m not sure Joseph was available.”
“First, really? Maybe if he worked out. Second, you or I crook our little fingers and get a guy away from Sophie.” They both looked back, shooting daggers toward one of the three women in the center wall booth. I knew which must be Sophie, as one of them was crying copiously while the other two petted her solicitously.
“And do we have a suspect?” asked pink jacket Gillian.
This time, they looked at a younger woman who sat at a table with two newly arrived Chamber men. She was gorgeous—skin the color of chai latte and hair as dark as a sky at new moon. She was staring off into space.
I almost said, “You know I can hear you.” But maids, taxi drivers, and bartenders… well, we’re invisible, which is partly how we get the good gossip.
They stopped talking abruptly as two men approached. “Can we get some food?” asked the first. He was in a polo and navy blue slacks.
I heard snuffling and saw that Marta was in the shadows, leaning back against the wall. “Hey,” I said, “would you ask the chef if we can continue to order food?”
She nodded and swung through the kitchen door.
Arthur, the man in the suit who had ordered earlier, accompanied the newcomer in the polo. Arthur addressed his companion in an audible hiss. “I’m telling you… we can’t let word of this get out. Tranquility has to be considered a safe haven. For everyone. For…the festival folks. It’s part of what lures them here. Change of pace.”
“How do we not let the word get out? It’s a matter of record! And everyone in town knows about it—or will, within minutes.”
From the furious pace of thumbs texting throughout the room, it was clear he was correct.
“I mean, don’t print this as front-page news.”
“It is front page news, Art. And, the film festival folks are already committed. They’ve submitted their films. They’ll come.”
Marta returned with a positive nod. I slapped down two menus. “Marta will be out to take your order,” I said. As they turned, I added. “And if it’s a film festival, you don’t need to worry. Film people eat news like this for breakfast.”
Arthur looked at me in surprise, but gave a raised-eyebrows look that inferred I could have a point.
They left with the menus and I turned back to Marta, trying to help get her mind on something other than her boss’s death. “Can you help me add these drinks to people’s tabs?” I nodded toward the POS.
For the record, I hate point of sale machines. Each one hates humans in its own unique way. I pointed at people and she pulled up their tabs and showed me how to input the drinks I’d served.
I only had the Scotsman’s tab left undone when the man in the artist’s shirt stopped right before me. He was likely late 40s and had a face that was long but not unattractive. His shoulders were unusually broad, and he exuded self-confidence and a self-trained impishness. His shirt had one too many buttons left undone.
“Okay,” he said, “I wasn’t going to drink, but Joe…”
“You weren’t going to drink because it’s late afternoon, or because you’ve been sober for seven months?” I had no interest in tipping someone off the wagon.
He laughed. “I haven’t been drinking because this isn’t my favorite crowd,” he said. “And I don’t usually drink. But murder seems an excuse, if there ever was one.” He extended his hand. “Michael Michel,” he said, and smiled, waggling his eyebrows as if this should mean something to me.
I took his hand and shook. It was apparent I didn’t recognize him.
“The Painter Who Brings You Home,” he said, and the trademark practically bled from the words.
“Right,” I said, trying to sound impressed. “Nice to meet you. I’m Avalon. What’ll ya have?”
“Vodka tonic lime.”
“Care which vodka?”
He shook his head while saying, “Whatever you’ve got. Grey Goose.”
Ah, a fellow who pretended not to drink, who knew exactly what he wanted.
I poured and went for the garnish tray. The limes were gone. I looked at the back bar and found lemons and oranges. No limes, though clearly there had been some. I walked along the front bar and found, below patron eye level, a small cutting board with a lime on it. The lime was half-cut, some of them in rounds, a few in quarters. Some juice was dripping down onto the floor.
I reached for a wedge, and then I stopped short.
Joseph never would have left this on purpose. It was obviously what he’d been doing when he was interrupted by death—or someone who led him to his death. Or by symptoms that eventually spelled death.
I leaned down and sniffed.
It was lime-y. But there was something else, also.
I backed away. I walked over to Marta and said, quietly, “Don’t let anyone near that end of the bar.”
Then I walked over to Investigator Spaulding, where he sat at a booth interviewing someone. “Investigator?” I said. “Sorry to interrupt, but this is important.”
He looked at me, squinting, then seemed surprised, since I’d made such a point of being Ms. Just-Passing-Through.
He stood up and stepped away from the booth.
“I believe I’ve found the murder weapon,” I said.
As we walked together, I realized that the door to the smoker’s porch sat open. It was crawling with half a dozen or so more crime scene people.
Together we walked to the limes. I said, “Don’t touch them. If this is what Joseph was doing when he died, if they are poisoned, my guess is that the poison can be absorbed through the skin.”
Investigator Spaulding looked at me like, Of course I knew that, but he stepped back. As another officer and two crime scene investigators came over, I backed away, removing myself as far as possible from the action.
I returned to the Artist Shirt. “I think today we’re going with a lemon and a cherry,” I said. I smelled them before putting them in the drink.
It struck me then that perhaps Joseph hadn’t been the intended target. Maybe there was someone who consistently ordered a drink garnished with lime, and the murderer had injected the poison into the lime, not realizing it could be absorbed as well as ingested.
Like, for instance, the man before me, Mr. Vodka Tonic Lime.
Still, this was a pretty non-specific way of poison delivery. The limes could have been served to half a dozen people before anyone realized they were toxic. Who would do something like that?
The police were letting people go once they had been interviewed. I asked Investigator Spaulding if I could go. He nodded, adding, “Please stay in town until tomorrow morning, in case we have any further questions.”
As if I had a choice. All the trains had gone, except the 11 p.m. to Montreal.
The bar had been sealed off with crime-scene tape, a welcome relief as I didn’t relish closing a dead man’s station on the night of his murder. Why would I even think that? I didn’t work here. But my need to leave a bar in pristine condition ran down to bone and marrow.
As I headed for my bag, which I’d left on my original stool, I saw I wouldn’t even be allowed to access the POS machine.
The only patron whose drink I hadn’t input was the man in the kilt. I looked around the emptying room to find he’d moved to a pub table over to the side. “Sorry, sir,” I said. “I wasn’t able to enter your drinks into the machine. I guess you’re on the honor system to pay up another day.”
He gave a small smile. “Lass,” he said, “I’m Glenn MacTavish. Owner of this place. Seems I’m out a bartender and will be needing another. You have any interest?” he asked.
I stopped and stared. “There’s really a MacTavish?” I asked.
“Aye, and you’re looking at him.”
“But… you don’t know anything about me.”
“You keep a clear head and you know what you’re doin’. That’s all I really need to know. Besides, you don’t know anything about me, either.”
“I, well—thank you for the offer. It’s a beautiful bar. Can I think on it overnight? I’ve been told not to leave town.”
“Aye,” he said. “You can tell me in the mornin’ if you might be stayin.’ And while you’re decidin’, I could pay you for your services tonight with a room here at the hotel.”
That seemed fair. The Hotel Tonight app was offering me a room at a local chain. Staying at MacTavish’s Seaside Cottage for free seemed infinitely more attractive. “All right,” I said. “I should probably let you know they’re expecting me in New York City.”
“All right,” he said. “I should probably let you know Joseph isn’t the first bartender to work here who’s been murdered.”
No Known Address
Ingredients
½ oz. Malibu black
2 dashes Chambord
½ oz. mango pineapple vodka
2 dashes Jägermeister Spice
1 oz. pineapple juice
Method
Shake pineapple vodka, Malibu Black and pineapple juice over ice and strain evenly into martini glasses.
Sink a dash of Chambord into each flute by running it down the side of the glass.
Layer a dash of Jägermeister Spice in each glass.
3
Wet Your Whistle
It stormed overnight. I’d left the window open, and the water tumbling in sheets from sky to lake laced my dreams with contentment. The night after I’d discovered a murder victim, I slept better than I had in months. People died. They died every day, without it being my fault.
I woke refreshed to find the foaming clouds had retreated, and the sun shone over Lake Serenity. I made a cup of coffee in the single-cup brewer in my room and stepped out onto the small balcony.
MacTavish’s Seaside Cottage was truly one-of-a-kind. According to the information card on the desk, it opened in 1889 as a getaway for the wealthy. Wings and floors had been added as the MacTavishes prospered. They were built to fit into the landscape, and reached this way and that into the hills surrounding the lake. Most hallways had two or three stairs in several places as the hills rolled. I could see why the fellow at check-in had asked if the inn was haunted. If I was a ghost, I’d rate this my number one on Trip Advisor.
I, myself, was oddly at peace.
While the single-serve coffee with the fake cream had gotten me vertical, it was time to go in search of real food. I was fairly certain I was on the back side of my 24 hours in Tranquility, so I may as well take in the sights. Traveling with only one large suitcase and one tote limited my clothing selection and made it easy to choose a long black shirt with navy blue buttons, black leggings, and navy blue flats. I grabbed the key and headed out.
Fortunately, at every juncture arrows pointed the way to the lobby, as well as to various halls and room numbers. This only underscored the nonconformity of the layout. If there was a power-outage, likely half the guests would never be seen again.
I wasn’t expecting the open can of mint-green paint sitting in the hallway as I rounded the penultimate corner toward the central building. In an effort to sidestep it and avert disaster, I instead crashed over a small dog sprawled in the middle of the carpet. Both dog and I yelped, and I went down.
The Pomeranian and I were now on the same level, and we regarded each other with surprise.
“Whistle!” a voice called, and a young man in painter’s whites dashed from the room with the open door. I didn’t really think he wanted me to whistle, but I sat up, flummoxed, and stared at him.
Mid-twenties, maybe, thin but muscular, skin the color of sweet tea.
“Whistle?” I asked.
“Sorry. So sorry. Thought I’d finished the room, but then saw where a touch-up was needed. Shouldn’t have left the paint uncapped. Glad you didn’t trip over it.”
“Nope, didn’t trip at all. Everyone tells me you can’t miss sitting in the hall outside room 134. Thought I’d give it a go.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he said, coming forward to offer me a hand up. Then, to the dog: “Whistle, come over here.”
“The dog is named Whistle?”
“I used to dog-sit her for a guest. Her full name is Wet Your Whistle, which is what the guest was famous for doing. She always talked about how much the pup loved her walks with me. Frankly, the poor thing just needed some attention. After one summer’s stay, the guest took off, bill unpaid, in the middle of the night.”
“Leaving Whistle.”
“Leaving Whistle. Such a trauma that the poor thing shadows me everywhere. And who could blame her? Not that I’m implying guests don’t pay—that you wouldn’t pay—”
“You caught me. In fact, I have no intention of paying.”
“Excuse me, what?” He had ducked back into the newly painted guest room to clean off the roller and return the unused paint to the can.
“Mr. MacTavish comped my room.”
He stopped short and returned to the hallway.
“Excuse me, what?” He said again.
“Mr. MacTavish comped the room.”
“That’s what I thought you said. I’ve just never heard that group of words in the same sentence.”
I laughed. “I filled in at the bar last night, after the…”
“Murder.”
“Murder. And, in lieu of paying me, he offered me the job and comped the room while I thought about it.”
“You must be one hell of a bartender,” he said.
“Actually, yes, I am. But just about now, I need some food. Where do the locals go to grab breakfast? I’m assuming not the Breezy?”
“You’re right. The Breezy breakfast is rolled into an expensive sleep-and-dine package. If I were you, I’d go down Main Street to the Cardamom Café for some coffee or masala chai.”
