The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle Read online

  “My dad’s dead,” Kolby said. He had come up behind me and stood with his hands at his sides as I slid backward, one foot reaching for the pallet. “It’s true, isn’t it? My dad’s dead.”

  He wasn’t looking at me; his gaze was fixed on the Dumpster. “I’m so sorry.” I started to pat his shoulder to comfort him, but then remembered where my hands had been. Looking down, I saw that my yellow dress would never be the same. It was smeared with heaven knows what kind of filth, including red streaks that might have been blood. I wasn’t the swoony type, but this was too much. I felt light-headed.

  “You two gettin’ it on out there, or what?” a laughing voice called from the doorway. “Haven’t you noticed it’s rainin’ cats and dogs? Ever heard of motel rooms?”

  Kolby and I walked toward the kitchen worker, whose eyes widened as we got closer. “What have you got on your—?” His hand brushed up and down in front of his chest. “Is that blood? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” He crossed himself.

  “Call nine-one-one,” I said, pleased to hear that my voice sounded calm. Unflappable. Thinking the word made tears spring to my eyes. “There’s been an accident.”

  Chapter 6

  I was in the kitchen, washing my hands in the deep sink, scrubbing and scrubbing, letting the hot water and the lemon-scented soap wash everything away, when I heard Hart’s voice. Not five minutes had passed since we called the police. I swung around, surprised.

  He strode in, looking so solid and dependable that I wanted to throw myself against his chest. I didn’t, of course. I was sopping wet and there were too many people around. But I couldn’t help smiling with relief. “Hart!” My voice caught. “Thank goodness. How did you get here so quickly?”

  “I was upstairs knocking pool balls around when I got the call. I was waiting to take you home.” His brown eyes swept over me and I felt as though he saw past my veneer of okayness to the confused and quivering mess underneath. He stepped closer. I could tell he wanted to put his arms around me, but the presence of Kolby and a handful of kitchen crew restrained him. “You’re soaked. Are you all right?”

  I nodded automatically. “Pretty much. It’s Gordon. He’s—” I didn’t want to say dead. “In the Dumpster.”

  “I’ll take a look. You.” He pointed at the oldest worker, a mature man with sun-bronzed skin and crinkles at the corner of his eyes. “Find her something dry to put on.”

  The man nodded.

  “Have you got any plastic garbage bags?”

  “Here.” The teenager who’d laughed at me and Kolby proffered a box. That made me think of Kolby and I spotted him slumped on an overturned bucket, head in his hands.

  Hart stripped two from the roll and handed one to me. “Put your dress in this when you take it off.”

  When I drew my brows together, he said, “Preserving possible evidence.” Holding the other bag over his head to stop some of the rain, he stepped through the still-open door and splashed toward the Dumpster.

  By the time I had stripped off my dress, wrung out my hair, dried off on one grand opening T-shirt and put on another, and donned a pair of too-big men’s gym shorts lent by someone, my brain was working a bit better. Where was Derek? My sandals were a slimy write-off, so I put them in the bag with the dress and wedged it under a sink where no one was likely to disturb it. Leaving the second-floor bathroom where I had changed (avoiding the first-floor women’s room with the overflow issue), I took the stairs to the third floor. It was dark except for a bar of light shining from beneath one door. I padded barefoot down the hall and knocked. At first, there was no response. When I knocked again, Derek’s muffled voice yelled, “G’way.”

  Translating that as “Go away,” I pounded with my fist. “Derek, open the door. Something’s happened.” I rattled the knob, but it was locked.

  For long moments there was no response. Then I heard footsteps trudging toward the door. The knob clinked as Derek manipulated the lock, and the door swung inward six inches. A slice of Derek’s face and one bleary reddened eye showed in the crack. A blast of alcohol fumes nearly knocked me down. Oh no. He was drunk.

  “Know what’sh wrong,” he slurred. “Pub’s going down the toilet. Ka-flush.” He raised his arm high and mimed flushing a toilet. “Gone. G’way, A-Faye. Hey, that rhymes. G’way, A-Faye, g’way, A-Faye,” he repeated in a singsong voice. He started to close the door.

  I stiff-armed it open and he staggered back a step.

  “Hey!”

  I marched in. His office was longer than it was wide, with a battered wooden desk at one end and a tired couch at the other. A large potted plant flourished by the only window, and a sixteen-by-twenty framed photo of our family (a Christmas gift from our folks—each of us kids got one three years ago) hung on the wall next to a print of dogs playing poker. Tasteful. There was a closed laptop on his desk, along with a litter of file folders and an autographed Broncos football. The place smelled like a distillery, which was ironic, given that we were in a brewpub. He was clad only in a golf shirt and plaid boxers, his pale, hairy legs ending in bony bare feet. “What happened to your clothes?”

  “Wet.” He pointed to a heap of clothes half-hidden by his desk and a golf bag propped in the corner.

  Blowing out an exasperated breath, I said, “You’ve got to pull yourself together, Derek. Gordon’s dead.” It wasn’t the way I’d have chosen to break the news, but only shock tactics were going to pierce the alcohol force field he’d put up.

  “If only,” Derek said. He turned and started toward his desk, where a half-empty bottle of vodka stood.

  “Stop it.” I grabbed his arm and forced him to look at me. “Gordon Marsh is dead. Really dead. In the Dumpster out back.”

  He blinked three times slowly, looking owlish. “Dead? Gordon’s dead? Gordon Marsh?”

  I nodded with increasing impatience in response to each question. “Yes. Gordon Marsh is dead. We need to get some coffee in you.” I knew coffee didn’t make you undrunk, but it might sharpen his wits enough to make him coherent. There was a coffeemaker on a table behind his desk with a quarter-full carafe. Cold, sludgy coffee. Not exactly Starbucks, but it would do the trick. I turned the burner on to warm the dregs, poured the remaining vodka onto the robust potted croton, hoping it wouldn’t succumb to alcohol poisoning, put the bottle in the trash, and turned back to Derek. “Do you have— Never mind.”

  I ransacked his desk drawer and found some aspirin. Pouring three into my hand, I gave them to him. While I was pulling bottled water from his minifridge, he chewed them and swallowed them dry. Looking at him, I knew they weren’t going to make a dent in tomorrow’s headache. I handed him the water and told him to drink it all. He did. “We need to get you cleaned up.”

  “Your hair is wet,” he said, gaze wandering over me.

  “So is yours.”

  A chill swept over me, raising goose bumps. Why were Derek’s hair and clothes wet? I trotted down the hall to the bathroom, dampened a few paper towels, and brought them back. A pair of lime green golf slacks hung from a coat tree, along with an umbrella and a shirt in a dry cleaning bag. I grabbed the slacks and thrust them at Derek. “Put on some pants. Tuck your shirt in. Wipe your face.” I handed him the towels. “Comb your hair.”

  He followed my directions obediently, running his fingers through his damp hair to comb it, and by the time he was looking marginally more presentable, the coffee was ready. I poured him half a mug and watched impatiently while he drank it. He was my baby brother and I loved him, but sometimes I wanted to beat him. If there’d been a pillow handy, I might have.

  Tires crunched on gravel. Red and blue lights flashed through the window and striped the walls. Voices drifted up from the parking lot. Derek scrunched his eyes closed but then opened them, looking suddenly more alert.

  “Gordon’s dead,” he said. His face went green and I thrust the trash can at him, afraid he was g
oing to throw up. He controlled himself. “The police are here.”

  I nodded.

  “Did you say he was in the Dumpster?”

  I nodded again, beginning to feel like a bobblehead doll.

  “How did he get there?”

  “Good question.”

  We were silent for a beat, and then we said together, “We should go down.”

  • • •

  I made Derek take the elevator, since I was afraid he would tumble down the stairs. When the doors opened on the ground level, we found all the lights on and the pub swarming with uniformed police officers. It looked like chaos, but I suspected there was a plan to their to-ing and fro-ing. Hart strode into the bar from the kitchen, face grim. When he spotted me in my too-big shorts and Derek in his lime green slacks, his face lightened momentarily. “Good thing the photographers already left—”

  A flash interrupted him and proved him wrong. Derek and I flung our hands up to shield our eyes and a reporter I didn’t know said, “Derek, how will a murder in your pub affect business?”

  With a head jerk, Hart summoned a uniformed officer, who hauled the reporter outside, still shouting questions. With a beckoning hand, Hart fetched an officer, who took Derek’s elbow and asked him to “Come with me, sir.” She led him toward a booth on the far side of the bar.

  When I started to follow, Hart’s hand on my arm stopped me. “We need to keep you separate until we’ve interviewed both of you.”

  My eyes widened. “You think—?” Of course he thought we were potential suspects. I’d found the body—which I knew from reading crime fiction made me an automatic suspect—and Derek was the dead man’s business partner. I swallowed hard. “Was he murdered?”

  “Well, I don’t think he flung himself into the Dumpster and bashed himself over the head,” Hart said. “How did you come to find him?”

  “Kolby found him,” I said automatically as Hart pulled out a small notebook. “His son. I heard him screaming and went to see what was up.”

  “Kolby’s the kid in the kitchen?”

  I nodded. Almost before I realized I was thirsty, Hart said, “Let me get you some water.” He fetched a glass from behind the bar and returned to me. While I drank it, he led me up the stairs to the pool-playing area, which was deserted. Balls and cue sticks lay on the green felt tables. We sat at a high top with two stools. Sticky rings decorated it from the mugs that had sat there earlier. A collection of glassware covered the short bar’s counters, ready for washing. I wondered vaguely who had bused all the tables.

  “Now,” Hart said, “when was the last time you saw Gordon Marsh alive?”

  I thought back and realized I hadn’t seen Gordon after we’d opened the pub doors to kick off the grand opening. I told Hart that. “He saw the WOSC women marching across the lot with their banner, said he needed a smoke, and disappeared.” I was thankful Hart had been at the party so I didn’t have to explain what WOSC was. “I don’t think I saw him after that, not even outside when we all evacuated for the fire.” If I’d missed Gordon earlier, gone to look for him, might he have survived?

  My head dropped. I didn’t feel that it was my fault, precisely, because I couldn’t possibly have foreseen or prevented the night’s disasters, but I still felt low. Hart’s hand landed on my shoulder, heavy and comforting. “None of it was your fault,” he said. “It was a great party, until . . .”

  “Yeah. Right up until the women’s toilets got clogged, the kitchen caught on fire, people started talking about rodents in the brewing vats, and my brother’s partner got killed.” I felt guilty for lumping Gordon’s death in with the other events and started to apologize.

  Hart’s brown eyes narrowed. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “so many things going wrong almost sounds like sabotage.”

  My mouth fell open and I snapped it closed. “But who—?”

  “Can you think of anyone who might not want this pub to succeed?” Hart asked. “Or who might have it in for Gordon or your brother?”

  “The WOSC women,” I said immediately. “I don’t know who they all are, but they’ve got a Web site. And Kolby and his mother, Gordon’s first ex-wife, were mad at him about money issues.” I summarized their argument, complete with mug-throwing.

  “And Derek?”

  I shook my head, wet hair strands sliding against my neck. “I can’t think of anyone who had it in for Derek.”

  “No, I mean did Derek have a beef of any kind with Gordon?”

  I lowered my eyes, and used my thumbnail to scrape at a crusty spot on the table. Should I tell Hart about the fight I’d seen? It would immediately make him suspect Derek. He already suspects Derek, my logical side said. It wouldn’t take much research for him to discover Derek and Gordon were on the outs about money. I decided on half-truths. “They were having money issues,” I said. “Derek didn’t tell me the details.” True.

  Hart gave me a long look but didn’t probe further. “Anything else?”

  Images of Derek and Gordon rolling across the rooftop played in my mind. Derek had nothing to do with Gordon’s death, I told myself, so the fight wasn’t germane to the investigation. I didn’t want to get my little brother in trouble, and I didn’t want the police wasting time and resources by looking closer at Derek when they should be searching for the real murderer. I recognized the rationalization, but still said, “No.”

  Hart spent another half hour taking me through the evening step by step, trying to get me to remember who I’d seen talking to Gordon at the preparty, and where I’d seen him. “You said he walked away about seven, when the party started, that he said something about having a cigarette. That would be on the patio?”

  Shaking my head, I said, “No. The roof.”

  “Show me.”

  • • •

  We traipsed up the two flights of stairs and pushed through the unlocked door. It was full dark, only the glow from the pub’s windows and a sickle moon lending a little light. I hadn’t realized before how isolated the pub was, with no buildings close by. Lights from a residential area two miles north were the closest signs of habitation. The rain had stopped, but puddles remained. Colder air had followed the rain into the region and I shivered in my borrowed shorts and T-shirt. Wrapping my arms around myself, I said, “He used to stand by the railing.” I pointed.

  Hart headed for the section of wall I indicated, not bothering to avoid the puddles. After a moment, I followed him, stepping carefully in my bare feet. Grit stuck to my soles. Hart stopped close enough to the wall to see over it, but didn’t touch it. Shifting two feet to his right, he peered at the wall and then leaned over it to inspect what lay beneath.

  “What?” I asked, coming up beside him.

  “Look.” He pointed.

  I craned my neck and he caught me around the waist as I threatened to bump against the wall. With his strong hands on either side of my waist, burning through the T-shirt’s thin fabric, I looked down. The Dumpster sat directly below where I stood, three floors down, illuminated by a portable light the police had brought in, I imagined. Police personnel in protective coveralls were bent over, searching the ground around the Dumpster, and some vehicle had gouged ruts into the mud.

  Hart tugged at me and I stepped back, finding myself pressed up against him for a moment. “Sorry,” I said, flustered.

  He gave my waist a quick squeeze and for a moment I thought—hoped?—he was going to turn me around and fold me into his arms. But he released me and stepped back. He was investigating a murder, I reminded myself, and I was a suspect. At least on paper.

  I drew in a long breath to regain my equilibrium. “So,” I said, relief flooding through me, “he fell?”

  Hart was shaking his head before I finished speaking. The humidity had made little curls stick up all over his head. “Not without help.” He stood beside the wall. “This wall is waist high on me
and nine or ten inches wide. No way could someone trip or stumble, even drunk, and fall over accidentally. But look at this.” He used a pen to point at faint grooves and scrapes that were lighter than the surrounding masonry. “These happened recently. My money’s on tonight. I’ve got to get a crime scene team up here.”

  He herded me away from the wall and made a call. Waiting, I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself again. The breeze raised goose bumps on my bare arms, and my beginning-to-dry hair flapped around my face. I was cold, miserable, worried, and even a little sad. I hadn’t liked Gordon—he’d been a grade-A jerk in many ways—but no one deserved to be heaved off a roof into a Dumpster, to lie there broken until he quit breathing.

  When Hart hung up, I stayed quiet as he shepherded me downstairs. He gave me a supervised moment with Derek, sequestered in a booth. He looked pale and ill, hunched over the table and holding his temples as if his head would explode if he let go. He didn’t notice me at first.

  “I can wait for you, Derek,” I said when he looked up, bleary-eyed. “I can drive you home.”

  He started to shake his head, thought better of it, and said, “Go home, Amy-Faye.” His voice was drained of all emotion, expressionless. “Just go home.”

  “I’d rather wait and drive—”

  “Go.”

  I hesitated, but then nodded. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  He didn’t say anything and after another moment of hesitation, I let Hart pull me away.

  “I wouldn’t call him too early,” Hart said.

  My gaze flew to his face. Why? Were they planning to arrest Derek?

  “He’ll have the mother of all hangovers,” Hart explained.

  He ushered me out to the parking lot. It was choked with police cars and vans, including a K-9 vehicle, an ambulance—too late—and the coroner’s van, which left as I watched. Tree limbs shivered with the wind’s gusts and sent eerie shadows chasing one another across the gravel. Raindrops beaded on the hood of my van. My limbs suddenly felt heavy and it was all I could do to hold my eyelids open. Reaction. Exhaustion.