Murder By The Pint (Microbrewery Mysteries Book 1) Page 5

  "Alright, that's enough."

  "You still suspect me."

  "No, but I don’t know whom to suspect."

  "Donald," he said matter-of-factly.

  "I just spoke with him. The package never left his sight."

  "And you believed him?"

  "Of course I believed him. The package never left..." And I paused. And Gerry realized that my mind was working.

  "Good. You got it," he said. "I'm going to lunch."

  I did get it, and I was in the middle of getting it as Gerry walked off for his lunch break.

  Donald had said the package had never left his sight. That's what he told the cops. It was a criminal's lie, one that allows you to lie without actually denying anything.

  Just because the package never left his sight doesn’t mean he didn’t put the diamonds in it.

  How could I be so dumb?

  I went to my office and called Donald's company. They gave me his address. Just like that.

  Oh, did I mention I represented myself as Sgt. Lyell of the Suffolk County Police Department? Oopsie. I made a silent promise to my father that I wouldn't lie like that again.

  Donald lived in the town of Crest Falls, a half hour outside of Carl's Cove.

  Long Islanders, I realized, gauge distance by time. You have to when any stretch of road, at any given moment, is clogged with cars that don’t move. That's what happens when you dump a bunch of folks onto an island and give them lots of coffee and city jobs. Ergo, Crest Falls is a half hour away, or two miles during rush hour.

  But little did I know, the gods that govern this little slab of land surrounded by sharks had decreed that five miles of Route 27 needed to be repaved. And so two lanes bottlenecked into one, and a certain individual in a Maserati thought he could cut in front of a Hyundai just at the entrance to the bottleneck, thereby getting himself a coveted ten feet closer to his destination. But the Hyundai would have nothing of this privileged punk cutting her off, and so she stepped on it just as the Maserati was asserting said privilege.

  Crash, bam, boom.

  And another hour and twenty minutes tacked on to my drive.

  By the time I got to Donald's house, my bladder felt like a puffer fish at full puff. So full I think my eyes were crossed. I staggered up his driveway and knocked on the door. Then I rang the bell.

  He answered, vaguely recognizing me. Work acquaintances always have trouble with recognition outside of the job.

  "Can I..." he started to say.

  "Listen," I said, beginning the electric slide on his front porch, "I just sat in about two hours of traffic and before I started I drank about a gallon of iced tea. Can I just use your bathroom?"

  When a girl is standing on your porch with such a tale, you quickly run through the options. Either let her stand there and deal with the consequences (watered begonias), or let her in and question her after when her mind is more rational.

  Donald opted for the latter, bless his heart.

  He stood in his livingroom when I emerged feeling as if I just gave birth to twin water balloons.

  "What's this all about?" he asked. I was pretty sure he recognized me by now.

  "We need to talk," I said. I'd rehearsed this little speech in the car. Upon retrospect, the nervousness I'd felt the whole time driving here did very little to alleviate my bladder predicament.

  "Ok," he said cautiously.

  "A package was delivered to my microbrewery," I said. "The contents were fifty pounds of Amarillo Gold hops and enough diamonds for an Arabian Nights story. Now I know the cops probably grilled you at length, but you and I both know that cops can be fooled, and the Carl's Cove police are, how shall I put it, probably not on the Mensa society's hot list at the moment. So maybe you should come clean with me, Donald."

  Here's something funny that happens sometimes. You sit in traffic for two hours and you get an idea, and you rehearse that idea and play it every which way until it seems flawless. The trouble is that you've only rehearsed that one idea, that one bit of dialogue. What you haven’t done is consider the other variables of the equation. Like, for instance, what would you do if you were in Donald's living room, and you realized that there was some weird optical illusion that had always taken place when you saw him at work; that the cute little courier uniform had somehow made him look a little smaller, and that now, stripped of that uniform and in plain clothes – plain clothes being a tank top and exercise shorts – an ensemble that showed off a formidable chunk of muscle – he towered over you, looking like he could take you in one fist and crush you like a cashew.

  And what would you do if you realized you were alone in that house? That the house had all the trappings of single life? You realize that you didn’t plan for this. That if this guy really was the criminal you were suggesting him to be, he probably was not above taking you in the aforementioned fist and crushing you like said cashew.

  That's when I thought of Max Bosch and the career criminal. And how I now had my answer: That for career criminals, if they were to continue their career, consistency and restraint was the key to longevity. The career criminal doesn’t go beyond the precedent he has set for himself. He may be desperate for the big score, but the jump from petty crime to harder crime is not like the jump from harder crime to murder.

  And that of course is when I realized that Donald here was no career criminal, but was probably more likely a guy with very little to lose besides his life and his reputation, and who would do anything to protect those precious commodities.

  And that's when I began to scream.

  Chapter 11

  There comes a time in life when the craziest solution to a problem has to be considered. This was one of those times. I figured I might possibly be killed at that moment, so it really did seem like a pretty decent idea right then and there.

  Here's how it went. I started to scream.

  It's not what you think. See, here was my dilemma: I was trapped in a room with a guy I didn’t know, whose proclivity toward murder I had not gauged. Had I started screaming about myself, there could have been trouble. But I didn’t think there could be half as much trouble if I was screaming about him.

  "Oh...my...GOD!" was how I started. And I pointed to his head. "Spider!"

  He ducked as if there was really such a creature descending upon his head at that very moment, and looked up cautiously toward the ceiling.

  "Oh...my...GOD!" I repeated.

  "What?" he shouted.

  "On your head! It's black and hairy!" And I let out a scream that could've frozen the Dead Sea. It was easy, I was that scared, and for a moment I actually pictured what would happen if I really did see what I was describing. I hate spiders.

  I kept pointing and screaming. "It's on your head!"

  Like I said, I really was that scared. There wasn't much convincing I had to do. As far as Donald was concerned, there was a huge, black, hairy spider sitting atop his head ready to go exploring.

  The man began to shake like he just grabbed hold of an electric fence in the rain. He slapped at his head, hard. And that was my cue. I ran like it was nobody's business.

  As far as I know, he was still in there slapping and shaking as I started my car and tore out of there.

  As for me, I was shaking too. All over, and I began laughing uncontrollably, or crying, or a mixture of both. All I know is that I actually felt elated to have gotten out of there alive. Then the thought occurred to me that I had no proof of what he would have done to me, only what he could have done. He also could have done a river dance while juggling three egg salad sandwiches. So, in the end, I may have made tremendous fools out of both of us.

  In fact, I'm almost sure that is what happened.

  I drove and drove, slapping my steering wheel out of frustration when I considered what I'd done back at Donald's house.

  "Stupid," I said to myself. "Stupid, stupid, stupid. My God, how stupid can you be?"

  There was no use going back to the brewery tonight. We w
ere close to closing time when I got back to Carl's Cove, so I just went home. Tanya was there. Thankfully. She'd gotten a job waitressing down at Junior's and today was her day off.

  "You look terrible," she said.

  "Thank you."

  "What happened?"

  "Pour me some wine and I'll tell you."

  She got up and made her way to the kitchen. Tanya had an annoying habit of keeping reds in the fridge. Normally I say something snarky. I let it go for tonight. She filled up a glass and I downed it almost in one shot and motioned for another.

  I told her the whole sordid story. Somewhere around the time when I cried spider, she started to laugh. Maybe it was the wine, the relief of tension, or both, but I started too and found I couldn’t stop.

  The phone rang. We looked at each other. The two of us were too busy losing our lungs to pick it up, and so it went to voicemail. When it beeped, I went over and picked up the phone and dialed in to hear the message. I was still hysterical when the message began:

  "Madison, this is Donald, your delivery guy..."

  I was no longer hysterical.

  Funny how that works.

  I let the message play out.

  "... I hope you don’t mind, I called the brewery and they gave me your home number. I'm not sure what just happened today, but I need your help. There's not much to say about it other than..." His voice seemed to waver slightly. "... other than you were right. And I'm in something that I can’t get out of. And I can’t go back to the police and you're, I think, the only one I can turn to. Can we meet somewhere? It can be a public place. In fact, I prefer that it be a public place. Call me. Ok?"

  If vampires were real, my face was what most of their victims would look like after a midnight supper. Tanya noticed the blood drain from my face as my laughter died and I listened to the message a second time.

  "What is it?" she whispered, as if the caller was live on the other end.

  I held up my hand until the message finished playing the second time. Then I hung up the phone.

  I told her it was Donald and relayed the message.

  Tanya was frantic. "You're crazy," she said. "You're not going to meet him, are you?"

  "You want to hear his voice? He sounded legit."

  "I don’t care if he sounded legit. You're calling the cops right now."

  "Stop. No I'm not. We're meeting at Junior's tonight. I'm calling him right now."

  "You're crazy."

  "And you're working tonight. Call Junior and see if he'll give you any hours. Call and see if you can switch with someone."

  I picked up the phone and hit the redial button.

  "I can’t believe what I'm seeing," Tanya said, wide-eyed and shaking her head.

  I put my finger to my lips and mouthed a gentle shush.

  "Hang up that phone right now," she whispered.

  I put my hand over the mouthpiece. "Too late, he already knows I'm calli— Hi, Donald...?"

  Tanya threw both hands up in the air while she listened to me talk. She shook her head, and it seemed automatic. Then, after a moment, she gave up with an exasperated gesture and picked up her cellphone to call her boss down at the pizza place.

  I gave her the thumbs up. "Seven-thirty, then? Sounds great. See you then."

  I hung up and she scowled at me.

  Chapter 12

  "Ayyy, felicia belladucci! Tuto pace!"

  That was Junior, greeting me as I walked in at seven o'clock sharp. It was complete gibberish, of course, as the only real Italian Junior could speak were the names of the dishes on his menu. He tossed a round of dough into the air and caught it on his fist.

  "I giva you cousin some hours, eh bambini? She's a fine a waitress."

  "She is indeed." I looked over at Tanya, who surreptitiously offered up a gesture that would probably get her fired from most jobs.

  "I got this one," Tanya called to the hostess. She led me over to a small booth that was as private as it could get in this place. "You so owe me," she snarled.

  "I know," I said.

  "No, I mean you so owe me. There's a children's birthday party tonight. Twins."

  I could hear them now – a din of voices erupting in bursts of laughter and general noise pollution. A couple of ten or eleven year olds, obviously brothers, possibly the birthday boys, came out of the room Junior booked for special occasions. An attractive blonde in a tight mini dress came out to fetch them.

  Waiting was tough. I suddenly got the feeling I was being watched. That someone in that restaurant had followed me there and was now scrutinizing me under cover. I felt like covering my face with the menu. Murder had led me to this very spot, after all. It wasn't exactly a comforting feeling.

  Seven-thirty came around. Seven-forty. Soon it was eight o'clock.

  "Junior's getting a little antsy back there," said Tanya, stopping by to refill my Diet Coke for the third time. "Want to maybe order an appetizer or something? Just to make him happy?"

  "Sure. Bring me a sausage roll."

  I wasn't hungry in the slightest. Eight-fifteen. Eight-twenty. My sausage roll lay before me, untouched.

  I called Donald. No answer.

  "Nothing?" said Tanya, stopping by to pick up the sausage roll in order to have it wrapped up for me.

  "Nope. I'm going home. Let me know if he calls or stops in or... whatever."

  She took my roll away and I tried Donald one more time. No answer. I couldn’t help but run his last words over and over in my head. "You were right."

  I was right, but about what? That he put the diamonds in the package? I'd never explicitly accused him of that.

  One of the birthday brats ran past me. The blonde was up by the register, chatting with the cashier and commanding the attention of the two pizza slingers, Junior's nephews, both in their late teens.

  Tanya dropped a rectangular box containing my sausage roll in front of me, called me a word you usually only hear in Martin Scorsese movies, and said she'd see me later.

  I took my doggie bag home and that was it.

  Once home, I was suddenly hungry.

  I tore open the box I soon as I got in.

  A folded piece of paper was sitting on top of my roll.

  "Your friend Don is dead. You've been warned. Stay out of this."

  Chapter 13

  "Tanya said she didn’t see anyone," I told Detective Moore. "I believe her."

  He stared at the note in silence for a moment then looked up at me. "Tell me again."

  I was a little impatient, not to mention baffled, not to mention terrified. I sighed loudly. "I just talked to Tanya on the phone before you got here. She said she put the box down on the counter when someone called her to the phone. She said they told her it was an urgent call. When she picked up the person had already hung up. She brought the box over to me. End of story."

  He nodded as he listened. Then kept nodding after I'd finished speaking.

  "Wanna let me in on the conversation you're having in your head?" I said without a hint of humor.

  He was unfazed. "The call was obviously to distract her. The thing that bothers me is that no one saw anyone go near the box."

  "It was on the front counter," I said. "Any customer walking in had to walk past it."

  "Mmmm. But it was around eight-thirty, no? That's not exactly the dinner rush."

  "There was a kid's birthday party," I said.

  "In the other room," he corrected. "Nothing going on in the main dining area."

  There was little else as Moore thought it best to get down to the pizza place quickly. He left without saying goodbye.

  When Tanya came home, she scowled at me. I was getting used to it.

  "I'm so sorry," I said.

  "It's ok," she said, her mood lightening quickly. "I made some good tips at least. How are you holding up?"

  "Ok, still shaken. Detective Moore was here. He's on his way down to talk to everyone at Junior's."

  "He'll be wasting his time. No one saw anything."


  I rehashed the discussion I had with Moore. Tanya offered a couple of suggestions that he and I had already covered and discarded. And then...

  Sometimes, all you need is someone there. It's as if there are only a finite amount of thoughts one can hold in one's head, and if there's someone there, that person can take some of those thoughts off your shoulders and let you sort out what you have. Which is exactly what had taken place in my living room, with my beautiful cousin Tanya, my best friend, holding onto some of the thoughts I'd let go through my voicing them.

  It was simple, really, in theory. What we needed was someone who would go unnoticed. Someone who no one would notice touching something they weren't supposed to touch. Someone no one would blink an eye at.

  "It was a kid," I said plainly.

  She seemed to snap out of a reverie. "Hmm?"

  "A kid," I repeated. "Who else? There was a children's birthday party taking place in the other room. Everyone knew there were about a dozen kids in there. Some were milling about from time to time. What if a kid came up and put the note in the box? Instructed to do so by an adult? Who would notice? Kids are always touching things they shouldn’t touch. And ask anyone who works in the food service industry or in retail or in any job where you serve the public: You don’t correct a child's behavior when that child's parents are nearby. You just don’t do it. There's a liability there that no one on a retail or wait staff salary wants to deal with. All that was needed then was a parent nearby distracting the attention of anyone looking. And I think I know who it was."

  #

  Tanya and I got down to Junior's just as he was locking up the joint. I pounded on the door. Junior came bounding over gesturing like a madman.

  Muffled curses and questions came through the glass. "What is it? What are you doin'?"

  "Please," I said, my face a mask of abject pity, "Junior, we need to come in."

  He opened the door a crack and poked his head through. "You gotta be kidding me. First, the police show up and now you. Oy vey ist mir."