Secrets and High Spirits: Secrets, Book 4 (9 page)

“A ghost?”

“Damn if I know. Some of the regulars thought so. One guy insisted it was all in our heads. Our memories projecting Og’s image, and it would go away with time. We never got to find out, though, who was right, because a few months after Og’s death, the Blue Parrot met its end too.”

“What happened?”

“Nobody knows. One night I showed up after work, and the door was locked and shuttered. I ran into other regulars in the Frolic Room and other places later, and they didn’t know a thing either. It was an end to an era, I tell you.”

“This is the most fascinating story I’ve heard in a long time,” Bruce admitted truthfully.

Cecil gave a wheezy chuckle. “If you live to my age and haven’t a bucketful of screwy stories to tell, you’ve lived your life wrong.”

The old guy’s spirit made Bruce chuckle. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He knew his next question was a long shot, but he had nothing to lose. “Were there ever any rumors about something hidden in the bar?”

“Hm.” The wrinkles making up Cecil’s face deepened—a feat Bruce hadn’t thought possible. “I don’t recall… Unless… But of course!” Cecil beamed and held up a triumphant, albeit trembling finger.

“Yes?” Bruce leaned forward so as not to miss a single word.

Cecil pointed his finger at Bruce. “The story about Quinn being a hired killer, well, I think I know how it started. There was an article in the paper about a man in Texas. This man—I can’t recall his name for the life of me—he was digging a well in his backyard and struck oil. And got rich overnight. As you might expect, we all joked about it—you know, how nice it would be, but we’d be more likely to find dead cats in our own yards, those who had yards. Og made a comment that you never know what’s under your feet, or some such thing. Which is just idle talk, right? But Quinn got cross like we’d never seen him and told Og to shut his mouth.”

“Hah.” As intriguing as this tidbit was, it didn’t shed much light on anything.

“It was queer, that’s what it was, but none of us dared to say a word, and Og clammed up, like…well, a clam, I guess. But soon after, Ronny started to speculate Quinn had killed a fellow and stashed him under the floorboards. I never gave it much credence, though, firstly because it was Ronny talking, and also because I reckoned if there was a stiff under the floor, it would’ve stunk something mighty. You know what I mean?”

“Uh-huh.” Bruce nodded, thinking the mysterious cocktail shaker was more likely the big secret. Though why, he couldn’t fathom.

Cecil clapped his hands together. “Now, would you like to look at some old photos? I dug up the albums after you called.”

Bruce replied that he would very much like to see them, and they spent another idle hour looking at black-and-white photographs. He was especially taken by one picture showing three men and a goat standing on the street in front of the Blue Parrot.

“That’s Ronny and Alvin, the bartender,” Cecil explained, pointing at the two older men in the photo.

Ronny was paunchy and bald, Alvin thin as a rake. Between them stood a younger man, straw hat tilted at a jaunty angle and smiling widely.

“Is that you?” asked Bruce, trying to see the man from the photo under Cecil’s wizened face.

“It sure is,” Cecil replied, showing no remorse over his lost youth. “This picture was taken after Claude won a race against Garry’s poodle. Garry Fowler owned Fowler’s Flowers, down the street. It’s long gone too.”

“Claude is the goat?” Bruce asked.

Cecil nodded. “Handsome fellow, isn’t he? Funny how I still recall his name when I can’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday. What day’s today?”

“Thursday.”

“Ah. Then it was meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”

In the end, Cecil gave every photo taken inside or outside the Blue Parrot to Bruce, saying he had nobody to leave them to and would rather give them to someone who’d appreciate them.

“You must come and see the bar once we’re done renovating,” Bruce said in parting.

Cecil’s wrinkles wound into a cheerful grin. “I certainly will. It would be lovely to see the old place back in its glory before I die.”

Bruce returned home with a warm and fuzzy sense of accomplishment. After a quick dinner, he spent the evening watching Netflix, starting with a documentary on mixology, and ending up with old episodes of
Arrested Development
. He went to bed early. He had big plans.

T
eag was having a lousy time. The night had started well enough. They’d had pleasant, if substance-free, small talk in the car. Things started to go downhill as Leo pulled into The Grove. Teag had liked and frequented the place back when it was just a farmers’ market but had been back only once since they attached a shiny new mall to it. He hated malls.

Still, there were bound to be a few decent restaurants there, so Teag brushed his dislike aside. Alas, Leo’s pick of eatery was not one of them. The cuisine was “Thai Fusion”, where fusion stood for the eradication of flavor. However, the dishes made up in prices what they lacked in spices. The overwhelming hipness of the place was the cherry on top. The red walls with golden lotus pattern were bad enough, but the six-foot-tall golden and bejeweled Buddha statue was definite overkill. Even if it was supposed to be ironic.

“How did you find this place?” Teag asked, poking at the ground hamburger meat mislabeled as larb on his plate.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” Leo gushed. “Kandy Hart was photographed coming out of here just last week.”

“Who?”

“Kandy Hart. She was on
Celebrity Ranch
.”

Celebrity Ranch
rang a bell with Teag—somewhere off in the far distance, maybe Kansas. “Was it a reality show or something?” he asked.

“Yes. Don’t you watch TV?”

Not garbage
was on the tip of Teag’s tongue, but he said instead, “Been busy. Are you suggesting that if we’re lucky, we can end up playing extras on TMZ?” His sarcasm whizzed past Leo without as much as making a scratch.

Leo beamed proudly, at least till his phone chimed. He’d placed it next to his plate the moment they’d sat down—perhaps expecting a Thursday-night real estate emergency. Now he glanced at the screen and frowned.

“Bad news?” Teag asked. A real estate emergency didn’t sound too bad right now.

“Nothing,” Leo replied, but his smile seemed pasted on.

Apparently, Leo had a near-encyclopedic knowledge of reality TV stars and assorted celebutantes. Everyone needed a hobby, Teag told himself, trying to be charitable, but he quickly tuned out. Now he knew how Dylan must feel when he got on his soap box about mixed drinks. Karma was a cruel mistress.

Another phone chime interrupted Leo’s jabbering, then another and another. Each time, Leo’s scowl grew deeper, and he became more and more squirrelly.

They left the restaurant without dessert, thank God. Teag insisted on paying half, though he was still starving. He hadn’t quite decided if he’d go back to Leo’s place, but it seemed less and less likely.

Leo insisted on checking out the mall, dragging Teag from one store to another. Right when Teag was about to put his foot down, Leo got yet another text message. This time he excused himself, walked off some distance and made a phone call. All Teag could see was the tense lines of Leo’s back.

“Sorry, I have to leave,” Leo said, striding back a minute later. “I can’t drive you home. It’s a…family emergency.” This being a lie was obvious from the way he was avoiding Teag’s eyes.

“Fine. Go. I’ll catch a cab,” Teag snapped, and marched off in the direction of the farmers’ market.

Being probably the busiest market in LA, a lot of the stalls and shops were still open. Teag scored a tasty pot of gumbo in one of them. Half an hour later, sated, he wasn’t even furious with Leo anymore. Irritated, yes, furious, no.

Bruce woke at 6:30 am on Friday morning, still feeling good, easing off the wave of a pleasant dream he’d already forgotten. After a shower and breakfast, he dressed and drove to the Blue Parrot—having learned more of the history of the bar cemented the name in his mind.

The first fly appeared in the ointment of his good mood when he found the back door unlocked. Was Teag there already? Seemed unlikely—too early, and he hadn’t expected Teag to come by before Saturday. “Hello? Teag?” he shouted anyway upon entering. It was dark inside, so he grabbed the end of the extension cord and plugged it in. In the light flooding the room, he noticed the footprints leading from the door to the stairway. They weren’t much, merely smudges of dirt, but stood out enough on the pristine paper he’d laid on the floor two days ago.

He followed them to the bottom of the stairs and shouted again. “Teag?” When no answer came, he stomped upstairs.

His heart stuttered to a halt as he spotted the crumpled figure in the middle of the floor. He rushed up and groaned in relief when he realized it wasn’t Teag. Or any of the boys or anyone else he knew. For a moment, he thought maybe it was a homeless person passed out, but then he noticed the dark pool spreading from under the man’s head—blood.

He crouched down, carefully, to stay clear of the blood, and reached out. The man’s skin was still warm, though Bruce’s search for a pulse proved fruitless. An odd sort of calm came over him. He stood, pulled out his phone and called 911.

C
hapter Seven

T
eag’s phone was clamoring for attention way too early in the morning. He ignored it and let it go to voice mail. Sadly, a couple of minutes later, the racket started up again. Aggrieved, he cracked his eyes open, yanked the blasted device off the night table and glared at the screen. Bruce. Teag declined the call. That should teach the tenacious bastard.

He tucked the phone under his pillow and let his eyelids drift closed, and was about to doze off when the text message ding sounded. Letting out a string of obscene curses, he looked. Bruce again. The text said:
URGENT. Answer your phone
. Maybe it was a real emergency if Bruce had gone through the trouble to capitalize a whole word. So when the phone rang again, he answered. “What happened?”

“You need to come to the bar.” Bruce’s voice was as serious as a brick through plate glass.

Teag’s sleepiness beat a hasty retreat as he sat bolt upright “What’s…? What…” A scary notion struck him. “Was there a fire?”

“No. No fire. But we’ll have delays. Look, just get here and I’ll tell you everything.”

Teag was out of bed and halfway into his jeans before Bruce uttered the last word.

T
hroughout the whole ride to Hollywood, Teag kept conjuring up one disaster scenario after another. Flooding because of a burst pipe, collapsed roof, lead paint, termites. An infestation of Hantavirus-carrying mice. Aliens. What he didn’t anticipate was a swarm of LA’s finest.

He couldn’t even get right up to the bar because of the police cordon; he had to park his Vespa half a block down and hoof it back. A uniformed cop stopped him, but once he explained who he was, the cop handed him over to a stubborn-faced man in his fifties, wearing civvies.

“Detective Lipkin,” the man introduced himself. “So, you own this place?”

“Half. What the hell’s going on?” Teag craned his neck, trying to take in the scene. People were coming and going. A ladder was leaning against the Dumpster, and a man with a camera was standing halfway up on it, leaning inside. The flash of his camera kept going off. Bruce stood off to the side, talking to a thirty-ish Latina, also in civvies.

D
uring the next several hours at the police station, Teag learned that cops liked asking question much better than answering them. It was a surreal morning spent being politely but firmly grilled about his activities of the previous couple of days, hazarding guesses about potential enemies, giving a list of people who had access to the building.

Somewhere along the way, he learned about the man Bruce had discovered. He even got to see a photo.

“Do you recognize him?” Lipkin asked, pushing the picture toward Teag.

Teag stared at it without touching. “I don’t know. Looks vaguely familiar, but I’m not sure. At my job, I see a lot of faces. Is he dead?”

Lipkin shook his head. “Not yet. Does the name Daniel Cole tell you anything?”

“No,” Teag replied truthfully. “Is it his name? What do the doctors say? Will he recover?”

Predictably, Lipkin ignored the question. “Are you sure only you and your partner had access to the premises?”

“Yes, of course. The front door is still boarded up, and there’s a brand-new dead bolt on the backdoor. Leo had it installed right after we completed the sale. I only gave a copy to Bruce.”

“Is this the same Leo Henderson you had dinner with last night?”

“Yes. Who else?” Teag snapped, at the dwindling end of his patience. “How soon can we get back inside? We have a renovation to finish. The electrician is coming tomorrow.”

Detective Lipkin showed no sympathy. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“Damn it!”

“I’ll call you when we’re done processing the crime scene.”

It was close to noon when Teag was finally free to leave. He ran into Bruce on his way out. Bruce seemed to have been waiting for him.

“What a mess,” was Bruce’s opener.

It was such an elephantine understatement, Teag didn’t even bother to comment. “We need to talk.”

“Agreed. Lunch?”

B
ruce suggested a Thai-Chinese restaurant on Hollywood Boulevard, not far from where he lived. Teag looked like someone whose spirits needed serious shoring up, and Bruce couldn’t think of anything better than a still-bubbling pot of tom yum soup.

Teag seemed to want to object at first, but then shrugged and asked for directions. Naturally, he had to ride there on his own, even though they could’ve put his moped in the back of Bruce’s truck and ride together. Bruce didn’t even bother to suggest it. They split up.

Arriving first to the restaurant, he took a table by the window. He saw Teag pull up a few minutes later.

“Did you leave the door open?” Teag asked the moment he sat.

Bruce took no offense, understanding Teag’s upset. “Of course I didn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yup.”

Teag couldn’t let it go. “How can you be sure? Can you without doubt recall locking the door?”

“Can you recall locking the door when leaving home two days ago? I bet you can’t, but you did, didn’t you? Criminals are known to pick locks,” he pointed out and added, “Though the whole thing still doesn’t make any sense.”

“Hm. The second-floor window was left open—it’s my fault.” Teag’s need to assign blame apparently turned inward. “I should’ve shut it once we were done dumping the trash out.”

“I should’ve checked. But I don’t think it matters. The door was unlocked when I arrived,” Bruce replied in an attempt to put Teag’s mind at ease.

Teag resisted. “Someone could’ve gone in through the window and opened the door from the inside.”

“Which means the killer is Spider-Man,” Bruce quipped, unable to resist the lure of an easy pun.

Teag groaned and rolled his eyes, as people tended to whenever Bruce made a particularly bad joke, but the tension of his shoulders loosened some, and he dove into the menu. The waitress arrived soon after.

“You like spicy,” Bruce commented as she departed with their orders.

“I like food with flavor. Otherwise you might as well live on protein shakes, right?” Teag said with quite a bit of force. Bruce didn’t disagree, and Teag circled back to their original subject. “Do you know the guy?”

Bruce shook his head. “Never seen him in my life. You?”

“I don’t think so. Though he might have been to Purlieux. Tons of people come and go there. I can’t remember them all.” Teag rubbed his face as if he could scrub the weariness away. “We have to cancel tomorrow.”

But Bruce had already thought of this. “I called Erik and told him. He can do next weekend instead, assuming the cops get out of there by then.”

“I sure fucking hope so. Was there a big, you know, mess?”

“Some blood.” Ignoring Teag’s grimace, Bruce went on. “Fortunately, the thing happened on the second floor. The patch of subfloor will be easy and cheap to replace.” He paused in contemplation. “While I was waiting for the cops, I was thinking how lucky it was that the guy didn’t bleed over the freshly sanded hardwood in the bar. Then I felt like shit. The poor fucker might die, and I’m thankful he didn’t inconvenience us too much.”

Something like sympathy flickered in Teag’s expression. “I know what you mean. I feel guilty, but at the same time, I can’t stop worrying about the delay and expenses.” His eyes—the color of twelve-year-old Kentucky Bourbon, Bruce realized for the first time—opened wide. “Has anything been stolen?”

“I don’t think so,” Bruce said truthfully, though it made the break-in more inexplicable. “I took a quick look at the tools, and they were all there. The sander too.”

Teag sagged. “The rental fee…”

“I have something to cheer you up.” A teasing tone stole into Bruce’s voice.

Teag raised a single, unconvinced brow. “Really?”

“Uh-huh.” Bruce grinned but resisted the desire to stretch out the moment of anticipation. “I found out a great deal about the original Blue Parrot.”

“Really?” This time, both of Teag’s brows shot up, and so did his voice.

The waitress arrived just then, carrying the pot of soup in both hands. She placed it in the middle of the table with minimal ceremony and lit the little burner underneath. Through lemongrass-scented steam, Bruce saw Teag smile at last.

B
y the time Bruce concluded his account, they’d finished their meal—robust and pungently flavorful—and were working on their Thai ice coffees. A sense of well-being spread over Teag, like the satisfying meal in his stomach.

“And the old guy gave you the pictures?” Teag asked with excited disbelief. He could’ve kissed Bruce. Well, maybe not literally.

Bruce lifted an oversized envelope from the seat next to him and gave it to Teag. “See for yourself.”

Teag pushed his glass aside and spread the photos out on the table. “Whoa, this is awesome.” He pointed at one showing the interior of the old bar, with a good view from the direction of the main entrance. “The layout is almost exactly the same as our plan.”

“The space kind of dictates it, doesn’t it?”

“True. The style of the bar counter is very similar too, especially if we stain ours dark.” He squinted closer. “We’ll need to add a footrest. Probably brass.”

“Easy enough.” Bruce picked up a picture carefully by its corner. “I thought we could have a few of these enlarged and hang them on the walls. If you think it’s a good idea,” he added deferentially.

Bruce was full of surprises and good ideas today. Teag experienced an unaccustomed twinge of guilt for his uncharitable opinions of Bruce in the past. The guy had more depth than he’d assumed. “I think it’s a fantastic idea. Especially this one.” He jabbed a finger at the photo of three men and a goat in front of the bar. “Is there a story to it?”

Bruce grinned. “Claude, the goat, beat the florist’s poodle in a race.”

Teag chuckled. “Oh my God, this is awesome. We should do a series of interviews with Mr. Goodchild—record every old story he can remember. Oh, and we absolutely have to invite him for the opening.”

“I’ve already did.”

Being in synch with Bruce was an odd new feeling to Teag, but not unpleasant. Unfortunately, talk about the opening reminded him of their current situation, and his good mood deflated. “If we’ll ever open. This whole break-in mess is a disaster.”

“Not necessarily,” Bruce said with the self-confident expression of a man with an ace up his sleeve.

Teag gave Bruce a dubious look. “What do you mean?”

“We could use the events to give the Blue Parrot an opening-day boost.”

“Gawkers and rubberneckers are not exactly the classy clientele I was hoping for,” Teag said, frowning.

“Hear me out. I know a guy.”

“He’s not in the mob, is he?” Teag asked, unable to resist the urge to jest.

Bruce grinned back. “Not quite. Toby is a freelance journalist. He’s had articles published in the
LA Times
and nationally syndicated papers. I think he used to be on staff at the
Times
back when journalism still had prestige and printed papers were the thing. And he’s a friend of mine.”

“Let me guess, every summer he dresses up as Bilbo Baggins at the Ren Faire.”

“Nope. He’s a regular at the Glitter Lounge. Toby is a chicken hawk.”

“An older man who chases after young guys?” Teag asked just to be sure.

Bruce nodded. “God knows what they see in him, but for someone who looks like a pickled prune, Toby is a twink magnet.”

“And this helps us how?”

“Well, I think I could get him interested in the Blue Parrot.” Bruce swept the photos back into the envelope. “Toby is like you, into things from the past.”

“Except when it comes to lovers.”

“Precisely. Anyway, if he decided to try to find out more about the mysterious Quinn and his boozy pal, Og, he’d know where to look. Then use whatever he finds, maybe some of these photos, tie it in to the current murder and top it off with a review of the new Blue Parrot and its mission to serve classic cocktails to fussy booze hounds.”

“Classic cocktails to an appreciative clientele,” Teag corrected while considering Bruce’s idea. He had reservations but was practical enough to admit how much some sort of publicity could help their fledgling business. “You sure this Toby guy will be interested?”

“Well, we might have to open a tab for him. The kind of tab that’s like a convenience store—it never closes.”

Teag braced himself. “Is he a heavy drinker?”

“Nah. Toby’s not an Og. So what do you say?”

Maybe it was his full stomach or the sun gleaming cheerfully through the restaurant windows, but Teag had the notion that Bruce was just possibly on the right track. “Okay. Talk to him.”

“I’ll set the wheels in motion.” Bruce tapped the edge of the table with the envelope. “I can take care of the pictures too, unless you want to do it yourself.”

“Nah. I’ll leave it in your capable hands,” Teag heard himself say. The tips of his ears immediately began to burn.