Part of me—the smart part—knew if I accepted his offer I’d be sorry. Another part of me wanted to jump at the chance to feel useful again. I tried to keep my eagerness in check. “Tell me more about Walt.”
Tom’s jowls sagged. “You woulda liked him. He was a lot like you.”
My stomach twisted. “How so?”
A small smile twitched Tom’s mouth. “Quiet. A loner. He wasn’t one to talk about himself. You’ve been coming here for a couple months now and I know your name and what you used to do before your accident, but that’s all.”
He had me pegged there. Spilling my guts to strangers wasn’t in my program. At one time I’d been a top insurance investigator, but office politics weren’t my forte. I screwed myself one time too many and ended up on the unemployment line. On the eve of starting a new job, I’d been mugged by a couple of street thugs. The resulting brain injury had changed my life forever.
“The newspaper said Walt was found by the Old Red Mill. That he was stabbed and had apparently been robbed.”
Tom nodded. “His wallet was missing. So was a big diamond ring he always wore. His father gave it to him when he graduated from high school. I went to the mill. Nothin’ much to see but some crime tape.” His gaze met mine, hardened. “But you’ll get more than I did.”
Get more? The words made my insides freeze. How did he know? I could count on one hand the people who knew I was—that I could . . .
Cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck. The word “psychic” didn’t really apply to me. Since the mugging, I’d been able to sense strong emotions. Not from everyone I met—but sometimes from those who were no longer alive. Sometimes I just knew things—but not always. It was pretty much haphazard and damned disconcerting when it happened. And often these feelings and knowledge brought on migraines that so far drugs hadn’t been able to quell.
Tom’s gaze bore into mine.
“Get more?” I prompted, afraid to hear his answer.
“Being a trained investigator, I mean.”
I heaved a mental sigh of relief. “Yeah.”
“When can you start?”
As a teenager I’d ridden my ten-speed all around Snyder and Williamsville, and could still recall some of my old routes. The area behind the Old Red Mill had always been weedy, with a steep embankment that loomed near a rushing stream. No way would I risk my neck to take a look in the dark. “Tomorrow morning.”
Tom nodded. “It wouldn’t hurt for the regulars to get to know you. Dave”—he indicated the other bartender drawing a beer at the brass taps across the way—“doesn’t want Walt’s early shift. You up to working here at the bar three or four afternoons a week?”
I looked at my reflection in the mirrored backbar. My hair had grown back from where some ER nurse had shaved it, but the shadows under my eyes and the gaunt look and sickly pallor were taking a lot longer to fade. I'd been living with my physician brother for the past three months. While I was grateful he'd rescued me, allowing me to recover at his home, I was tired of the enforced inactivity he’d insisted upon. The idea of actually having something to do and somewhere to go appealed to me.
“I’d like to try.”
“Okay. Show up here about eleven tomorrow and I’ll give you a run down on how we operate.” He turned, took a cracked ballpoint out of a jar and grabbed a clean paper napkin, on which he scribbled a few lines. “This is what you have to do. I don’t need workers’ comp or the IRS breathing down my neck.”
My hand trembled as I reached for the napkin. Who would have thought that a part-time job in a neighborhood bar would make me so nervous? A warm river of relief flooded through me as I read the short list. “I can do this. Thanks, Tom.”
“A bartender?” My half brother, Richard Alpert, looked up from his morning coffee, his expression skeptical. His significant other, Brenda Stanley, lowered a section of newspaper to peer at me. The three of us sat at the maple kitchen table in the home Richard’s grandparents had built decades before in Buffalo’s tony suburb of Amherst, the egg-stained breakfast dishes still sitting before us.
“I need a job.”
“Okay, but why a bartender?” Richard asked.
I’d been rehearsing my answer for an hour. Now to make it sound convincing.
“I’ve done it before. It’s pretty much a no-brainer, which is something I can handle right now.”
Richard scowled, studied my face. Being twelve years older than me, he’s felt the need to look after me since the day our mother died some twenty-one years earlier. Back then I was an orphaned kid of fourteen and he’d been an intern with generations of old money behind him. “Have you thought about the consequences of this kind of social interaction?” he asked.
I frowned. Consequences?
“Touching peoples’ glasses, taking their money. What if you get vibes about them? Stuff you don’t want to know.”
I knew what he was getting at. Truth was, I hadn’t thought about that aspect of the job, although I had been counting on the somewhat erratic empathic ability I’d developed after the mugging to help me look into Walt Kaplan’s death. I couldn’t read everyone I encountered—Richard was a prime example. We were brothers—okay, only half brothers—but he was a total blank to me, yet I could often read Brenda like an open book.
I met his gaze, didn’t back down. “I guess I’ll have to deal with it.”
He nodded, still scrutinizing my face. “And what’s the rest of it?”
“Rest of it?”
“Whole Nine Yards—isn’t that where the bartender who was murdered last week worked?”
My half-filled coffee mug called for my attention. “Uh. Yeah. I think so.”
“You know so.”
“Okay, I’m taking his job.”
“And . . . ?”
Talk about relentless. “And the owner asked me to look into things. Nothing official. The guy was his cousin.”
Richard’s mug thunked onto the table. “Jeff, don’t get involved.”
“I’m not.”
Richard’s gaze hardened. “Yes, you are. The question is why?”
Brenda folded the newspaper, all her attention now focused on me, too.
How much of a shit did it make me to admit I wanted the dead man’s job? And that I was willing to endure a certain amount of unpleasantness to get it probably said even more. It’s just as well that Richard’s MD wasn’t in psychiatry, not that I was about to admit any of this to him.
“Okay, as you won’t answer that question, then when do you start?”
“Today. Afternoon shift.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You’d better tell me if you’ll be late for dinner—not that you eat enough to keep a sparrow alive,” Brenda said.
“How long a shift will you work?” Richard asked.
“I didn’t ask.”
His other eyebrow went up. “How much will you make an hour?”
“I didn’t—”
“You didn’t ask,” he said, glowering.
I got up from the table, cup in hand. “You want a warm-up?”
He shook his head. “I’m worried about you, Jeff. You’re not ready for this.”
I poured my coffee, my back stiffening in annoyance. “Is that a medical opinion?”
“Yes. You’ve made tremendous progress, but your recovery is by no means complete.”
He was one to talk—Mr. Short-of-Breath. I wasn’t about to argue with him though, as I felt responsible for him being that way. He’d been shot trying to protect me not ten weeks before. Walking up stairs or any distance was still a chore for him. I didn’t want to cause him undo concern, and yet . . .
“You’re about to start a new job,” I said, more an accusation than a statement.
“It’s only a volunteer position. It’s not full time, and doesn’t start for almost another month. By then I’ll be fully recovered. Head injuries like yours don’t heal on that kind of timeline.”
Somehow I resiste
d the urge to say, “Oh yeah?” Instead I turned to Brenda. “What do you think?”
“As your friend or a nurse?”
“Take your pick.” Why did I have to sound so damned defensive?
She sighed and reached for Richard’s hand, her cocoa-brown skin a contrast to his still pasty complexion. “As a nurse, I agree with Richard.”
He smirked at her, his mustache twitching.
“As your friend.” She turned to face me. “You’re driving me nuts—the two of you, because you’re both going stir-crazy.”
Richard’s smile faded. He sat up straighter, removed his hand from hers.
Brenda pushed herself up from the table, and headed out of the kitchen. “You’re going to do what you want anyway, so—get on with it.”
I avoided Richard’s accusing stare, added milk to my coffee and stirred it. Stir-crazy, huh? Too often, Brenda could read me, too. Still . . .
I faced my brother. “You want to come with me?”
Richard blinked. “To work?”
“No, to check out where the guy got stabbed.”
“I thought you weren’t getting involved in this?”
“I’m not. I’m just curious.”
“And curiosity killed the cat.”
I sipped my coffee. “I figure I’ve got at least eight lives left.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Jeff. You could’ve died from that mugging.”
“And I could get hit by a bus going to the grocery store. Are you coming or not?”
Richard drained his cup, pushed back his chair and rose. “I’ll come.”
* * *
About the Author
A native of Rochester, NY, L.L. Bartlett honed her characterization and plotting skills as a frequent writer for romance magazines and was a finalist in the St. Martin’s/Malice Domestic contest.
In addition to the Jeff Resnick Mysteries, Bartlett also writes the New York Times Bestselling and Agatha-nominated Booktown Mystery series under the name of Lorna Barrett. Bookplate Special, the third book in the series, was nominated for an Agatha Award for best novel of 2009.
Bartlett’s first Victoria Square Mystery, A Crafty Killing, will debut in February of 2011.
Visit her website at: https://www.LLBartlett.com
(You can also find her on Facebook, Goodreads, Myspace, and Twitter.)
Also by L.L. Bartlett
Writing as Lorraine Bartlett
The Victoria Square Mysteries
A Crafty Killing (2/2011)
The Walled Flower (Fall, 2011)
Short Stories:
An Unconditional Love
Prisoner of Love
We’re So Sorry Uncle Albert
Writing as Lorna Barrett
The Booktown Mysteries
Murder Is Binding (2008)
Bookmarked For Death (2009)
Bookplate Special (2009)
Chapter & Hearse (2010)
Sentenced To Death (2011)
Murder On The Half Shelf (2012)
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