The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle (4 page)

“They say revenge is a dish best served cold,” Kerry said.

“It's best not served at all,” Lola said with surprising tartness.

“Whoa, Lo,” Brooke said. “That's easy to say, sitting around this table, but what if someone kidnapped and killed your child and the police couldn't catch them? Wouldn't you want to see them get theirs?” Elbows on the table, she put her chin in her hands and leaned forward to gauge Lola's reaction.

“I might want to see them punished, but I hope I
wouldn't do anything illegal or immoral to make it happen.” Lola creased her brow.

“Were they all equally guilty,” Kerry asked, “or just the ones who struck the early blows that actually killed Ratchett?”

“Interesting,” Maud said, dipping her chin to study Kerry.

The discussion swirled off in new directions and it was almost ten when we broke up, making plans to watch the movie version of
Murder on the Orient Express
next Thursday, a week from today.

“I hope you're all coming tomorrow night,” I said as we took our dishes to the sink and got ready to leave. “Well, all except you, Misty,” I said to the kitten, who was trying to decide if a sliver of corn chip was edible. She eventually disdained it and stalked, tail straight up, to Lola.

“Wouldn't miss it,” Kerry said, scraping the leftover guacamole into the trash as Brooke approached with the cling wrap. “You don't want to keep this, Brooke, not after we've been double-dipping.” She tucked the plate into the dishwasher. “Always good for the mayor to be seen supporting local businesses. And I'm happy to do my part,” she said with a self-sacrificing air, “especially when it involves beer.”

“That's why we voted for you, Ker,” Maud said. She rose to her feet, yawned, and stretched long arms over her head. “I'll be there. Joe's in town, so I'll drag him along.”

They left and Lola followed them, saying she and her grandmother would be at the opening. Since they
were teetotalers, I appreciated the gesture. When it was just me and Brooke, we each grabbed another beer and settled into the squashy, loden green leather chairs in her family room. In the winter, there'd be a cheery fire crackling in the stone fireplace, but it was too warm for one now.

“Where's Troy?” I asked.

“Doing campaign strategy with his dad and some county movers and shakers,” Brooke said. She was seated sideways on the chair, her knees draped over the armrest, and one foot kicked restlessly.

“Are you okay with it, that he's running for state senator?”

She shrugged. “I'm not against it, if it's what he really wants. Trouble is, I don't know if it's what
he
wants, or what his parents want. I've been married to Troy for ten years, and with him for almost fifteen, and I still have trouble sifting out who he really is sometimes, from who his folks want him to be. I think that's because he's not sure.” She took a long pull on her beer.

I didn't know what to say to that. My taste had always run toward men who were sure of who they were—for better or worse—and I'd never understood Troy's attraction. Yeah, he was good-looking, rich, and a decent enough guy, but he kowtowed to his parents too much for my taste, let them decide where he was going to college (CSU), what he was going to study (business), and where he'd work afterward (Daddy's car dealership). Marrying Brooke was the only time he'd defied his parents. That he'd loved her enough to
go against them had made me feel more warmly toward him for a while, but that feeling had worn off earlier this summer when he accused me of investigating Ivy's murder because I was an attention hound.

“Anything new on the adoption front?” Against her in-laws' wishes, Brooke had talked Troy into starting the adoption process after ten years of marriage and six years of trying unsuccessfully to have children.

“We've got someone coming to do a home survey on Monday. If we pass that—”

“When.” Brooke kept the cleanest house in Heaven and had already baby-proofed every inch of it.

“—the agency will put our profile in their book of prospective parents who are interested in talking to pregnant girls—women—who are considering putting their babies up for adoption.”

“Did they say how long it'd take?”

Brooke wrapped a piece of hair around her finger. “Same old story. A week, a year, never.”

I could see she was trying not to get her hopes up and didn't want to talk about it anymore. Giving her an encouraging smile, I changed the subject, telling her about the fight I'd witnessed between Gordon and Derek and the article I'd pulled up.

“I'm so afraid for Derek,” I said, voicing fears I hadn't even acknowledged to myself. “I don't know how—or if—he'll handle it if the pub goes under.”

“Hey, Derek's a levelheaded guy,” Brooke consoled me. “He wouldn't do anything drastic.”

“What about the time he ran away from home after the incident at A. J. Lingenfelder's birthday party—”

“He was four!”

“—or the time he spray-painted ‘CHEATER' on the Zooks' garage door, or—”

“Amy Zook
did
cheat. She Sparknoted the answers to—”

“—when he got arrested for vandalizing the signs and for that bar fight?”

“They dropped the charges when everyone said the other guy started it. He's older now,” Brooke said. “Less impulsive.”

“Hmph.” I set my tone to “unconvinced.”

“We could have Troy's announcement party at the pub,” Brooke suggested.

“That's a great idea,” I said gratefully, “if the pub lasts that long.” The announcement was timed for mid-January of next year.

She leaned over to put her hand on my arm. “It'll be okay, A-Faye. He's a big boy. He's smart, he's resourceful, and he makes darn good beer. Things'll work out for him.”

“Thanks.” I smiled, thinking that only-child Brooke didn't understand. I'd been watching out for Derek all my life. Yeah, he was an adult now, and he made his own decisions and lived with the consequences, but I still wanted to help all I could.

On the drive home, I decided that the only way I could help at the moment was to produce the best-ever grand opening party, and that was what I determined to do. Not that I'd been planning a ho-hum grand
opening, but I vowed to clear my calendar tomorrow and spend the day at Elysium Brewing overseeing every teensy-weensy, minute detail.

F
riday dawned crisp and clear, with the possibility of afternoon thunderstorms. Typical weather for this time of year. I said a little prayer that the storms would hold off, since we were counting on using Elysium's patio space to keep the crowd under fire marshal–mandated levels. Then I headed off to yoga, figuring I needed a little meditation if I were to survive this day mentally intact. Feeling limber and relaxed after class—held in Yael's studio on the third floor of the building where my ground-floor office was—I descended the stairs past the law firm on the second floor to the Divine Herb, which had the street-front space. Standing in line for a coffee, I overheard a cluster of suited men talking about coming to Elysium tonight and it made me smile.

“You look like the cat that ate the canary,” said a voice behind me.

A happy glow spread through me. I turned to see Detective Lindell Hart smiling at me. The police detective was attractive without being handsome, although the longer I knew him, the handsomer he got. Hmm. He had ever-so-slightly receding, curly brown hair, a nose that had clearly been broken at least once, and a tan that testified to his time in a softball league and
fly-fishing. He was almost a foot taller than me, maybe six-four, so I had to look up. “Hi. No canaries. I'm going to settle for a yogurt parfait and a large—a very large—coffee. Busy day.”

“I'll bet. Everything ready?”

“It will be,” I said with determination.

“I know you hired a couple of our off-duty guys to help with traffic control and security,” he said. “Good move.”

“Never hurts to have a cop on hand.” I accepted my coffee, yogurt, and change from the clerk and moved to the condiments ledge to dump in some cream. Hart held my parfait for me while I tamped the lid back down on my cup.

“See you there at seven?”

“Come for the preopening party at six,” I invited him impulsively. “It's for family and the area's movers and shakers.”

“Which am I?” His brown eyes gazed into mine, humor and something else lurking in them.

“Neither. You're
special
.” I gave the word a droll twist.

He grinned. “I've been waiting months to hear you say that.”

Was he serious? He sounded like he was joking, but . . . I pondered the way his smile made my pulse race a bit, and wondered if it might be nice to be Lindell Hart's special someone. He'd moved here from Atlanta in April, and we'd gone out a few times this summer, but he'd been at a Homeland Security training session for almost two months, and my job tied me up most
weekends, so we hadn't been able to spend a lot of time together. Then there was Doug.

I shook my head slightly to dislodge both Hart and Doug. I didn't have time to sort out my love life. Not that I really had a love life. I had two attractive men on the periphery of my life, one of whom had dumped me two years earlier and become engaged to another woman this past year, and another I barely knew. I needed to focus on the grand opening. Focus, focus, focus.

Hart and I parted on the sidewalk in front of the tea shop. “Gotta run,” he said. When he handed over my yogurt, his fingers brushed mine and I felt that tingly glow again.

“Criminals keeping you hopping?” I asked.

“Staff meeting. I'd prefer the criminals.”

I laughed, waved, and headed for my van as he walked down the block and turned the corner toward the police department.

•   •   •

I crunched into Elysium's gravel parking lot half an hour later, near nine o'clock, having taken a two-minute shower, pulled my hair into a ponytail to keep it out of the way, and shrugged into jeans and a tank top. Today was about work, not impressing potential clients. I'd sneak home before the actual party started and change clothes. Opening the van door to let the morning's cool breeze in, I spooned up my yogurt and scanned my to-do list. It was lengthy. It ranged from directing the caterers (for the preopening party—we were serving the pub's food during the grand
opening), banner hangers, and cleaning staff, to making sure the extra chairs arrived and were arranged attractively in the second-floor pool table area for the preopening party, to checking stocks of toilet paper and towels in the bathroom, confirming with the valets, off-duty cops, and other extra staff, picking up the Elysium Brewing T-shirts we were handing out to the first hundred guests, and a couple of dozen more things. Where was Al?

On the thought, he drove up and stopped beside my van with a puff of dust from the gravel. “Reporting for duty, boss,” he said.

“Don't call me ‘boss,'” I told him for the millionth time.

“Where do you want me to start?”

A delivery truck from the party rental company in Grand Junction turned into the lot just then, so I sent Al upstairs with their team to supervise the transformation of the pool table loft. I headed for the kitchen, hoping the catering staff would show up before too long. Bernie was there, sponging a spot off the front of her uniform shirt. I said hello and peered out the kitchen's open back door. A produce delivery van was off-loading while a kitchen worker kept track by marking items off on a clipboard. Two industrial-size Dumpsters yawned open behind the van, already half-filled with pallets and bulging trash bags stuffed with kitchen refuse, I guessed from the smell. Gordon Marsh, looking much more together today in pressed khakis and an orange Elysium Brewing golf shirt, a Band-Aid on his cheek, stood beside a Dumpster, apparently
arguing with a zaftig blonde who used her hands as she talked. She looked familiar . . .

Bernie appeared beside me, probably curious about what I was staring at, and I asked her, “Is that Gordon's sister?”

She shrugged thin shoulders. “Wouldn't know. I've never met his sister. I think she's a step-, though, so you can't tell anything by looking at them.” We studied the quarreling pair, who hadn't noticed us.

I put it aside, not interested in Gordon's love life, and too pissed off at him for what he was doing to Derek to say good morning. I checked with the head chef to make sure everything was okay in his domain. He gave me an “okay” sign with circled thumb and forefinger, and I left the kitchen in time to meet the janitor coming through the front door.

“Thanks for coming early, Forrest,” I greeted him.

“Foster. Don't worry about it.” He gave a small smile when I winced at getting his name wrong. “You were close. Most people don't think janitors have names. I've discovered in the past few months that we're an invisible breed.”

Even though he was smiling, his tone was bitter. Wearing a white coverall, he was medium height with a sturdy build. Gray-flecked black hair with Roman-style bangs capped a face with an olive complexion and incipient five o'clock shadow I suspected reappeared ten minutes after he shaved. He wore Mizuno athletic shoes and looked to be in his late fifties.

“You a runner?” I asked, gesturing to his shoes, trying to make a connection.

“Used to play racquetball,” he said. “Can't afford the club anymore. Might as well use the shoes to mop in. If you'll excuse me, I've got to get started. Busy day. Tilers didn't seal the grout in the bathroom when they put in the handicapped stall a couple months back and I need to bleach it. Gets dirty fast if it's not sealed.”

I sidestepped out of his way. “I appreciate your attention to detail.”

“Came in handy when I was an account manager.”

From white-collar worker to janitor? Hmm. I didn't have time to get into it, although his tone invited me to ask. “I'll bet. Open a window. I can find a fan if you need one.” The last thing we needed was the pub reeking of bleach. “We'll have a cleaning crew in tomorrow to help with cleanup,” I assured him.

With a twist of his lips that could have meant anything from “Thanks” to “Who gives a damn?” Foster moved off, shoes squeaking slightly on the wooden floor.

The day passed in a whirlwind of activity with Derek, Gordon, Bernie, Kolby, and the rest of the pub staff working as hard as Al and I. Derek sent them all home in the early afternoon, with directions to be back half an hour before the party kickoff. I ate a sandwich on the run for lunch, munching down bites as I helped the banner company position the E
LYSIUM
B
REWING
G
R
AND
O
PENING
banner, a symphony of dark brown and orange, along the roofline of the old building. I didn't get a breather until midafternoon, when I left the pub briefly to fetch the T-shirts from the shop in a strip mall on the far side of Heaven. It was while I was
waiting in the T-shirt shop that I remembered where I'd seen the blonde talking to Gordon that morning. She'd been one of the two women distributing flyers in the parking lot on Wednesday. Why were they talking? He might have been chewing her out for soliciting his customers, although it had looked to me like
she
was haranguing
him
. When I got back to the van and dumped the T-shirt boxes in the back, I picked up the crumpled flyer from where I'd tossed it. Smoothing it out, I read:

Women Outing Serial Cheaters (WOSC) vs. Gordon Marsh

If you're one of the hundreds of women screwed (literally and figuratively) by Gordon Marsh, join your sisters in woe at Elysium Brewing during its Grand Opening on Friday, 4 August. Thought you were alone?

You've got lots of company. Have a beer on him and talk about busting his balls this Friday.

Check our Web site for next month's target and to nominate future cheating subjects for outing and payback.

I reread the flyer, openmouthed. Really? There was an organization that identified and got revenge on cheating men? No way. This had to be a joke. But if it wasn't . . . That was all the grand opening needed—a pack of out-for-blood women looking to humiliate Gordon the way he'd humiliated them. Under some circumstances I might have admired the chutzpah of whoever had organized this, but not when it was my
brother's livelihood at stake. Did this group get violent?

I called Maud. She was the computer whiz. If anyone could get the scoop on this organization quickly, she could. When I explained what I needed and read her the URL, she laughed.

“Happy to check 'em out for you,” she said. “What a hoot!”

“I'd find them a lot hootier if I weren't worried they're going to wreck the party tonight.”

“Don't worry,” Maud said. “If it looks like they're dangerous, or even destructive, you can tell your detective and he'll take care of them for you.”

“He's not my detective,” I said, but the thought that Hart was going to be nearby cheered me up. “Thanks, Maud.”

I climbed into the van, noticing that the sky was getting darker and the wind picking up. Just great.

Derek and Gordon feuding. Women maybe planning to teach Gordon a Lorena Bobbitt–style lesson. Thunderheads moving in. If troubles came in threes, this party was already at its limit and the first guest hadn't even arrived.