Irish Stewed (6 page)

“We were closed for the day, and I was back in the office doing paperwork. Even if somebody came to the restaurant—and they obviously did—there’s no way I could have seen anything.”

“But you knew when Sophie and I got here.”

It wasn’t my imagination—his shoulders did get rigid. “I did,” he admitted. “But only because I happened to go up to the cash register to check on the day’s receipts and I saw the lights turn on.”

It was certainly an explanation. And a mighty convenient one at that. I told myself not to forget it and said, “There were no lights on when we got here. Which means Jack Lancer was here in the dark.”

“In the dark. With a killer.” Declan gave this some thought. “It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.”

“It does if Jack and whoever he was with didn’t want to be noticed. But why here?” As if it might actually help me make sense of the situation, I looked all around, but there was nothing in the faded decor that explained why a TV reporter would break into the Terminal in the middle of the night. “Why did you think Owen might be here?” I asked Declan. “I mean, besides the fact that he’s a troublemaker. Why here?”

Declan walked along the front of the restaurant. Here, there were three tables in front of the windows that met the wall of the waiting area. There were another two tables against that wall and two more across from them. The one nearest to where I stood was where I’d found Jack. Just like in the larger part of the restaurant, there were more posters on the walls here, more photographs, and an old railway timetable that had been matted and framed. When Declan got as far as the waiting room wall, he swung around and came back the other way.

“The last place I saw Owen yesterday—I mean, before I saw him being led away in handcuffs—was at Kitty’s,” he said. “That was around six in the evening. He’d spent the day with me over at the shop unloading a truck and helping me check in some new inventory. He was supposed to leave
my place, stop and say good night to Kitty, then go to my parents’ for dinner, and when he didn’t show up, my mother called. She was not a happy camper. She’d made salmon because she knows it’s Owen’s favorite and she said the meal was time-sensitive and that’s why she was worried, but I knew the real reason she called. She knew Owen not showing up meant he was in some kind of trouble. He’s that kind of kid. I walked down the street and didn’t see any sign of him in any of the other shops. Honestly, I thought he might be out boosting cars. Or doing some serious underage drinking. When I saw you and Sophie come into the Terminal, I wondered if you’d gotten a call about a break-in and I figured it was worth checking to see what was up.”

“Owen must have still been hanging around when Sophie and I got here.” This was a no-brainer, but I mentioned it anyway. Talking through the scenario helped me keep it straight in my head. “Otherwise the cops wouldn’t have found him hiding out back.”

“Agreed.”

“And Owen admits he was here for the copper?”

Declan made a face. “Owen doesn’t admit anything. But he doesn’t deny it, either.”

“Did he happen to say if he ever came inside the building?”

“He said he might have taken a look around. His words exactly, ‘I
might
have taken a look around.’”

It was all I needed to hear. I started back to the kitchen.

When I found the door that led into the basement, Declan was right behind me. There was an old umbrella stand in front of the door and I tried to lift it and realized that it weighed a ton. Together, Declan and I dragged it to one side and scrambled down the steps.

According to the historical marker sign out front, the
Terminal was built in 1889 and my guess is that nobody had bothered to update—or for that matter, clean—the basement since. It was a big, rectangular room built from huge sandstone blocks that held in the cold and the moisture.

I shivered and hugged my arms around myself and the leopard-print top I’d worn that day with black pants.

There were narrow windows at ground level and shelving along every one of those walls. The shelves were mostly empty and there were boxes and discarded restaurant equipment here and there on the floor. Most of it looked as if it had spent the better part of my lifetime right where we found it. I skirted a coffee urn and a piece of copper tubing that had been dropped nearby and made my way over to the deeper shadows along the far wall. Just as I suspected there would be, there was a stairway there, and at the top of it, a door that led to the outside. The window in the center of the door was broken.

“That’s got to be how he got in,” Declan said. “And don’t think Gus didn’t notice it. I’m sure they took pictures, and see”—he pointed to smudges on the wall—“they dusted for prints down here, too. Owen doesn’t have the brains God gave a goat. He’d never think to wear gloves. I have no doubt some of those prints belong to him. With that bit of information, Gus will have no problem making a case for Owen leaving here, going upstairs, and killing Jack.”

“Really?” I looked at him long and hard and when that didn’t work, I pointed back toward the stairway where we’d come down. “You think he really broke into the basement, started taking the copper, left it where he dropped it, then broke into the back door upstairs so that he could kill Jack Lancer? That seems awfully complicated.”

“Like I said, Owen’s not the brightest bulb in the box. Maybe he just came up the basement steps and—”

“Did you see that old umbrella stand in front of the door that leads down to the basement from the kitchen? No way Owen opened the door from this side with that thing in front of it.”

“Unless he put it back when he was done.”

“From this side of the door?”

“You’re right.” Declan pulled out his phone and headed back to the stairway. Upstairs, he slid the umbrella stand back where we’d found it and took a few photos.

“You’ll sign an affidavit, right? I mean, if Gus asks. You’ll say that the umbrella stand was—”

“Right there. Right where you just put it. Yes, of course. When we came in, that’s exactly where it was.”

“Great!” He sent the pictures he’d just taken over to Gus Oberlin and while he was at it, I strolled back into the restaurant.

The first thing I did was swipe a doily off the closest shelf where it shared space with a doll dressed in Victorian clothing.

Too many knickknacks and too little ambience, and a menu that if what Declan had read to me about burgers and rice pudding meant anything, lacked not only imagination but any food actually worth eating.

And none of it mattered, I reminded myself, dropping into the nearest chair.

Because I was staying until Sophie was better and then I was gone.

Where?

I had no idea, but I knew it wasn’t going to be Hubbard, Ohio.

Or the Terminal at the Tracks.

As far as I could see, the restaurant was as terminal as its most famous customer.

W
hen I heard a sharp rap on the front door, I hurried through the restaurant and into the waiting area.

Face pressed to the glass.

Beady blue eyes.

Scrunched-up nose.

I might not know local news, but I’d recognize Kim Kline anywhere.

Apparently, so would Declan.

Though I hadn’t realized he’d followed me, he reached around me, yanked open the door, and barked, “Ms. Inwood has no comment.”

Really?

I wedged myself between Declan, the door, and Kim, who had retreated and was toeing the line between the front walk and the restaurant. “I can tell her that myself,” I grumbled, before I turned to the reporter and said, “Ms. Inwood has no comment.”

“But—”

Whatever she was going to say, I cut off Kim when I shut the door.

“I don’t need a keeper,” I said, and I marched through the waiting area and back into the restaurant. If Declan and I were going to go at it, the last thing I needed was a media audience. I made sure we were far from the front windows before I turned to him. “I can take care of myself. Which means I could have told her myself that I had nothing to say.”

“You did tell her, and you handled it well.” How Declan could stand there and smile when my blood pressure was about to shoot through the roof was a mystery to me. “I forgot you had the whole Hollywood thing going for you. Apparently, you’ve stared down the paparazzi a time or two.”

“Or three or a dozen or a hundred times.” I didn’t need the reminder of my former life. Not when my current life was turning out to be so complicated. When we looked over the crime scene earlier, I’d left my coffee cup on one of the tables, and I snatched it up and again walked far enough away from the windows to be sure Kim couldn’t see us, even with her nose pressed to the glass. I held the coffee cup in both hands against my chest. It wasn’t much in the way of a shield but only an idiot could miss the symbolism. I doubted very much that Declan was an idiot, but just in case, I thought it only fair to tell him, “I don’t like pushy men.”

“Neither do I,” he confided. “Though I do confess I have something of a soft spot right about here”—he laid a hand over his heart—“for pushy women.”

I bit back the reply I was tempted to hurl at him and matched him smile for smile. “Well, then, it’s a good thing I’m not a pushy woman, isn’t it?”

“Jury’s still out on that.” He laughed and his eyes sparkled with way more mischief than anyone should have been able
to muster at that time of the morning. “I’m not about to pass judgment, because I don’t know you well enough. Not yet, anyway.”

I puffed out a sigh of frustration. Or maybe I was just trying to catch my breath. “You’re exasperating.”

“And you’re intriguing.” He took a couple steps back, the better to look me over as he had a time or two before. This time, just like those other times, heat raced up my neck and into my cheeks. “When are we going to have dinner together?”

I hesitated. But then, being blindsided will do that to a girl.

“I’m free tonight,” Declan said.

I shook myself back to my senses. “I’ve got to go to the hospital tonight. To check on Sophie.”

“Tomorrow, then.” He turned and headed for the door and called back over his shoulder, “Unless you still think I’m a murderer!”

“I never said you were a murderer. I only said it was a possibility. And I didn’t agree to dinner,” I added. I shouldn’t have bothered. By the time I got to the front door, Declan was already out on the sidewalk and ignoring her when Kim Kline scrambled over, tape recorder in hand.

“Pushy and exasperating,” I grumbled.

That is, right before I smiled.

Just in case Declan might see, I spun away from the door.

And spun around again when there was another tap on the window.

This time when I grumbled, it had nothing to do with the handsome gift shop manager. I opened the door a crack. “Really, Ms. Kline, there’s nothing I can tell you about Jack Lancer and even if there was—”

Like a bolt out of the blue, an idea hit. I was being perfectly truthful; there was nothing I knew about the dead TV star.

But that didn’t mean Kim Kline didn’t know plenty.

I swallowed my words, and when I opened the door I took a step back so she could walk into the restaurant. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked her.

Don’t worry, I hadn’t forgotten the pledge I’d made to myself the night before: I would stay far away from the cameras, and there was no way I’d let myself be quoted and thus end up with my name plastered in the newspapers and on the Internet.

“This is off the record,” I told her before she could open her mouth and say a word. “If you promise not to quote me—”

“You’re an anonymous source.” Kim actually crossed her heart with one finger. “I appreciate your help. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened around here in a long time. Jack and I worked together, and when I got this assignment . . .” Her cheeks flushed. “Well, this is the biggest break I’ve had in my career. Anything you can tell me will put me one step ahead of the competition.”

I led the way into the kitchen and when we got there, I dumped my cold coffee, refilled my coffee cup, and poured a nice, hot cup for Kim.

“So what do you think Jack was doing here?” Kim asked.

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

She flinched. “You mean you don’t know? You mean . . .” As if she might actually see something interesting in a kitchen that was so far out of date I wondered how anyone could cook anything in it, she looked around at the fryers and the grill, at the tiny salad prep station, and out the pickup window where Sophie’s one and only cook passed food through to the servers. “Do you believe what the police are saying, that Jack Lancer actually broke into the restaurant with the guy they arrested, the one who was stealing copper in the basement?”

I didn’t think it fair to reveal what Declan and I had already determined. Someone broke into the basement, all right. But chances were, that someone wasn’t Jack. Whoever was downstairs had never come upstairs. Which meant Jack couldn’t have gotten up here from down there and the person who was down there—Owen—could never have been up here. Jack must have come in through the back door. But why? And if he was with Owen, why wouldn’t the two of them just come in together?

I finished my coffee and set down my cup. “Do you believe it?” I asked Kim.

“The kid could have been desperate,” she suggested.

“Desperate enough to kill? To cover up his copper stealing?” I shook my head. “Even if he was, from what I saw of Owen Quilligan, he was young and fit. Jack would have been no match for him. To me, that means if he ran into him and wanted to keep him quiet and get away, the kid could have punched Jack in the nose and run. Or whacked him with a piece of copper tubing, knocked him out cold, and gone on stripping the copper out of the building. But he didn’t. He didn’t even finish stealing what he started to take. The kid is the one who ran, and he left the copper where he dropped it. Seems to me, the question has to be why.”

A new thought hit me. “Did he carry a weapon?” I asked Kim.

“Jack?” She had just taken a sip of coffee, and she swallowed so hard, I heard the gulp. “I don’t think so. I don’t think . . .” She made a face. “That just doesn’t seem like the Jack I knew. And even if he did carry a weapon, why would he bring it here to your restaurant?”

Just hearing the words, a prickle of annoyance shot over the back of my neck. “If you’re going to get your anonymous
source right, you can start there,” I told her. “It’s not my restaurant.”

“Of course not. You’re not Sophie. Not that I know her or anything,” she added. “Until I was assigned Jack’s story, I’d never been here before. I mean, why would I be? It’s not like it’s a dinner destination. I mean, for anyone.”

She was working her first big story so I guess she was allowed to be a little nervous and a little thoughtless, too, so I cut her a little slack.

A little was all I ever cut anybody.

“So what kinds of stories was Jack working on?” I asked Kim.

Her shrug was noncommittal. “From what I could see when I went back to the station last night and looked through his files, just the usual. Something about school cafeteria lunches not being nutritional enough. Something about the local food bank Robin Hood, too, though that file was so slim, I have a feeling it was initiated by a tip and then Jack discovered there really was nothing to the story. I mean, really, how interesting could it possibly be to do a story about somebody who leaves anonymous donations at the St. Colman’s food pantry now and again?” It wasn’t and Kim knew it—that’s why she rolled her eyes. “There was a file about some car repair place, too, a shop on the other side of town that charges for parts they don’t really install.”

“Nothing about the Terminal at the Tracks.”

Another shrug told me all I needed to know.

“So why Jack? Why here?”

“Maybe . . .” Kim finished her coffee and set her cup on the stainless steel counter. “Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe the cops are right. He ran into that Quilligan kid and the kid killed Jack to keep him quiet.”

“If that’s true, it would be the wrong time, but what about the place? It was a place he had no business being.”

Since this was obvious, Kim didn’t bother to answer. Fine by me. That gave me a chance to ask, “Could he have been meeting someone?”

Kim’s cheeks paled. “Like the Quilligan kid?”

“Forget the Quilligan kid!” I controlled my temper. Just barely. It wasn’t Kim’s fault that I knew about the umbrella stand and she didn’t. “Let’s try out some other theories,” I suggested from between gritted teeth. “You know, just in case the cops find out they’re wrong about Owen.”

I guess Kim had never even considered the possibility, because she wrinkled her nose and cocked her head. “Okay.” She didn’t sound sure of this at all. “So let’s start with Jack’s files. The school cafeteria story . . . You people here at the Terminal, you don’t have anything to do with the food provided to the local school district, do you?”

As far as I knew, the restaurant didn’t, and I told her so. Right after I reminded her—again—that I was not in any way, shape, or form to be included in the “you people.”

“Then what about the church food pantry?” Kim’s nose twitched. Since it was such a big nose, it was hard to miss. “If you donate leftover food—”

“We do. That is, the restaurant does,” I corrected myself. This anonymous source wanted to make sure she stayed clear of any close association with the restaurant. After all, she wasn’t sticking around. “Sophie told me that on Fridays and Saturdays, any food that’s left over goes to the homeless shelter downtown. And she says if there’s ever any canned goods that are about to expire, she sends them to the food bank because she knows that over there, they’ll give them out right away and the food won’t be wasted. I can’t imagine
knowing something like that is the kind of thing that gets a man killed.”

That morning, Kim had her glossy ringlets pulled back into a ponytail. She was wearing the same black suit she’d worn the night before when she tried to push her way into the restaurant, and now that I thought about it, it was probably because she’d been working nonstop since she heard Jack was dead; she hadn’t had a chance to change.

That would explain why there were bags under her eyes, too. And why Kim put a hand to her mouth and yawned.

“Sorry.” She apologized instantly. “It was a long night.”

“Then you’re probably anxious to get going.” I led the way out of the kitchen and, as weird as it seems since I was reluctant to let Kim in, now I hated to see her go. She hadn’t told me anything, not anything useful, anyway.

Maybe she was feeling the same way about me.

Kim paused outside the kitchen door. “Can you show me . . .” Her eyes positively gleamed when she glanced around. “Can you show me where he . . . I mean, where it . . . Sorry!” As if to gauge whether I was thinking less of her, she gave me a quick look. “I’ve never worked a murder before. Could you show me where the body was found?”

As far as I could tell, it wouldn’t hurt. And it would give me a few more minutes to question Kim.

I led her to the part of the restaurant where those few tables were wedged between the front windows and the wall of the waiting area. From there, it was really a no-brainer to determine where Jack had been killed; the table, the chair, and the floor around both were still sprinkled with fingerprint powder.

“Oh, right here!” With two fingers, Kim touched the back of the chair where Jack had spent his last moments on earth. “Was there a lot of blood?”

I hoped my quick smile told her this was something I would rather not discuss. “I’m sure it’s all in the coroner’s report.”

“And you can be sure I’m going to get my hands on that as soon as I can, but until then—”

I headed her off at the pass. “Until then, tell me about Jack. We’ve talked about how he might—or might not—be somehow connected with Owen Quilligan. We’ve talked about the stories he was working on. But what about him? What kind of person was this Lance of Justice?”

Kim’s shoulders shot back just a tad. She stood a little straighter. When she spoke, even her voice was different. It rang with conviction, like she was in front of the TV cameras.

“Jack Lancer was a mainstay of this community. A man of integrity and mettle. He stood up to corruption. He refused to back down from controversy. He was a hero.”

“Great. Fine. Wonderful.” I waved away her words at the same time I swiped at a dust mote that floated by. “But what kind of person was he?”

She gave me a sidelong glance. “Truth?”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

Kim leaned nearer. “Professionally, Jack had it all going for him. He’d been at the station for, like, forever, and he had all the perks that went with his job. You know, wardrobe allowance, primo parking spot, more days off than anybody else on the reporting team.”

“And were the other reporters jealous?”

She thought about this for a moment. “I don’t think so. I mean, most of us, we weren’t even born back when Jack started at WKFJ. And most of us . . .” One corner of her mouth pulled tight. “There aren’t many people who are happy staying at the first station where they get a job after college.”