Sleuthing for the Weekend Read online

  I liked her on sight. This wasn't some bored college co-ed making time and money. Something about this woman made me feel right at home, as if her greeting helped me banish my tension.

  "It's just me," I said, raising my voice a little so she could hear me over the din.

  "In that case, I can seat you right now if you don't mind eating at the bar." At my nod, she gestured me forward, grabbing a plastic-laminated menu from the hostess stand. "We're packed tonight, what with the band and all. It was a last-minute call, just went out on social media an hour ago."

  I hadn't planned to sample the menu, but my stomach rumbled at the delicious aromas coming from the kitchen. "Okay. Also, is Daniel O'Flannigan here tonight?"

  "You a friend of Danny's?" Despite the familiar tone, she sounded only mildly curious.

  "We've never met, but we have a mutual acquaintance who recommended this place." I offered up a winning smile.

  She dimpled back. "Well, you're in luck. He's playing tonight."

  "Playing?" I raised a brow.

  She gestured toward the low stage at the far end of the bar, her nails done up in a beautiful classic French manicure. A small drum kit and a few microphones were spotlighted from carefully placed stage lights. "He's a member of the band, Under Irish Skirts."

  "Classy."

  She laughed a little. "I know. Not really my taste, either. A little too masochistic. But it goes with the territory. They're a Celtic punk band. What's your name again?" She set the menu she'd been carrying down in front of a vacant seat at the bar. "I'll let him know you are here."

  "Mackenzie." I didn't offer up my last name in case Daniel's hostess recognized it and connected me to Michael O'Flannigan's new partner.

  "Mackenzie. My name is Lois. Just give the order to the bartender whenever you're ready. I'll let Danny know you're looking for him." She patted me once on the arm in an affectionate gesture and then bustled off.

  "What can I get you, dove?" The bartender with a charming brogue who looked to be barely old enough to shave gave me a wink.

  "Shirley Temple, three cherries. And easy on the ice." It was my go-to non-alcoholic beverage of choice.

  "I love a woman who knows what she wants." He maintained eye contact as he used the soda gun to fill a highball glass, mixed in some grenadine, and then spooned three maraschino cherries on top. "Two fifty."

  "Mhhmm." I accepted the drink and slid a five-dollar bill out of my purse. "Keep it."

  "Generous as well as beautiful." He grinned again and then, mercifully, headed to the cash register to pocket his tip.

  One thing I'd learned in my time as a private investigator, being a generous tipper often led to follow-up calls. And giving over a hundred percent tip made me feel less icky than flirting shamelessly with young Mr. Brogue.

  I studied the menu. It was one-sided, with just a few selections of appetizers and entrees, though I still had trouble making up my mind. I'd have to order some food to go for Mac as well, and maybe Hunter too.

  Just as I was deciding if ordering Shepard's Pie, Irish Stew, and sausage rolls was too much for one person who was technically supposed to be working, the band took the stage. There were three of them. I spotted Daniel O'Flannigan immediately. He was a taller, leaner, younger-looking version of Michael. He carried a set of bagpipes.

  I barely stifled a shudder. Nothing against the pipes. I'd heard plenty of excellent music played on them. With the success of Dropkick Murphys, who'd been a Boston source of pride for over two decades, Celtic punk bands had popped up in small venues all over Beantown. Some of them were halfway decent, but I held a sneaking suspicion that listening to one fronted by the bar's owner would be akin to torture by yoga.

  At the arrival of the band there was generous clapping, probably because Daniel was very handsome. I noticed many of the people seated in the front rows were women. Daniel O'Flannigan stepped up to the microphone, a wolfish grin in place.

  "Thank you all for joining us tonight. We're UIS, and our first song is called 'The Lost Treasure.'"

  Interesting. I wondered if the song had anything to do with the family lore Michael had told me about earlier.

  Without further preamble, the band set in. Daniel's bagpipes appeared old but well-preserved and blended seamlessly with the opening of the lively tune.

  One song in, I was tapping my toe against the base of the barstool, happy to have been wrong. I'd even taken my phone out and was recording a bit to send to Mac. Under Irish Skirts played a set of four songs, transitioning between what sounded like a classic reel seamlessly into the traditional St. Patrick's Day pub song "Whiskey in the Jar." Then onto an instrumental version of U2's "Sunday, Bloody Sunday" and finally, the theme from—be still my heart—Game of Thrones, which sounded freaking awesome on the pipes. Glad to see I wasn't the only one obsessed with the show.

  I watched Daniel play, trying to assess his character. He seemed friendly and approachable, making eye contact as he played but not flirting with any of the women in the audience. Not the men either. No, he seemed completely focused on his music.

  When they finally stopped, the cheering and applause echoed through the pub.

  The bartender deposited a plate of sausage rolls in front of me before casting me a wink and asking in a rumbling brogue, "Anything else, dove?"

  "How often does the band play?" I asked as Under Irish Skirts launched into a new set. "Is this a weekly thing?"

  The bartender shook his head. "This is the first I've heard from them since I've been working here."

  "And how long is that?" Maybe he was new.

  "About six months. Can I get you another drink?" His grin turned lascivious. "On the house?"

  "No thank you. I'm good." I offered a contented smile and took a bite out of the sausage roll. And barely managed to stifle my moan. Savory spices and flakey pastry lit up my taste buds.

  "I get off at eleven, if you want to meet up after." The hopeful bartender took another shot.

  I decided to be flattered that a cute guy with an amazing accent who happened to be a few years older than my daughter was trying to pick me up. Best to let him down easy—no sense in wounding his ego. "I'm in a relationship with someone, but I appreciate the invitation."

  He took the rejection gracefully with a small nod and then found something pressing to do at the other end of the bar. I refocused on my sausage rolls and the band.

  Six months and I just happened to come on the night UIS played. From the easy way they harmonized, it was obvious they'd played together before, probably for a long time. So what, if anything, had kept them from making this a regular gig?

  My attention had been on Daniel O'Flannigan, but now I studied the other band members. The drummer had a salt-and-pepper buzz cut and the strong, wiry build of a man devoted to physical fitness. I could easily picture him jogging through Boston Common regularly.

  The fiddle player looked to be a little younger than the other two, maybe by as much as a decade. His hair was dark and badly in need of a cut. He didn't smile or engage the audience at all, and it was hard to tell if he viewed the music as enjoyment or a chore, like taking out the recycling. His focus was all for his playing, a serious musician and, from the looks of it, the only one of the bunch.

  I pulled out my phone and texted Mac. Need you to do some research about Under Irish Skirts.

  Two sausages rolls later the reply came back. Is that supposed to be like what do Scottish men wear under their kilts?

  It's a band, smart-ass. O'Flannigan plays the bagpipes. Need to find out more about the others. I attached the video I'd recorded and sent it to her.

  A minute later. I'm on it.

  "I hear you were looking for me?" Daniel O'Flannigan had approached me unaware when I was preoccupied with the text.

  I set the phone down on the bar top and wiped my hand on the paper napkin that had come with my drink before offering it up to him. "Sorry. I was making a pig of myself with your amazing sausage rolls. And…that came out
dirtier than I'd intended."

  Technically it hadn't. I wanted to know if he would size me up the way his bartender had done if I left the door open.

  He didn't though, the consummate host. Instead he grinned, the deep creases around his eyes indenting naturally. He was a man who laughed often. "Glad to hear you're enjoying yourself. Now, what can I do for you, Ms. Mackenzie? Lois said we have a mutual friend."

  I nodded. "Your brother, Michael."

  His pleasant expression fell away, like he'd slithered out of a skin that no longer fit. The jovial bar owner and musician had been replaced by a cagey, untrusting man. "Michael sent you? Why?"

  Judging from his reaction, I wasn't going to get much out of him in such a public setting. "He didn't exactly send me, just suggested I might speak with you. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?"

  It was a risk, but my gut told me that he was about to ask me to leave, and the only thing that kept him from doing so was curiosity at why I'd come to his bar on his brother's behalf.

  He nodded, his expression still tense. "My office."

  I hopped off the stool, making sure to snag my phone on the off chance he bounced me if he didn't like my line of questioning. "Lead the way."

  Following his broad back, I wound my way along the bar and into a dim accessway. The door at the very end stood opened, and I could hear the clanging of pots and pans, smell the food. It would be a shame if I got barred from this place now that I'd discovered the magic sausage rolls. The door on the right was obviously a restroom, marked with plastic signs with calligraphic writing proclaiming it was for lasses. The men's room was farther down the corridor, near the entrance to the kitchen. On the left side, directly across from the ladies' room, stood an unmarked door. Daniel O'Flannigan extracted a set of keys from his pocket, inserted one into the handle lock, and then turned the knob before standing aside to gesture me forward. "After you."

  "I really appreciate your time," I said as I moved past him. The door had only opened about three inches, so I placed my palm against it, expecting it to swing open all the way. But there was resistance. As though something weighty was shoved against it. A desk or a bookcase maybe.

  "Is there something…?" I trailed off when I saw it.

  Blood. Pooling across the floor as deep as the puddles on the street. And in it, the delicate hand with the French manicure I'd admired.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Figuring out what makes people tick is the key to good detective work. If you know the motive, you understand the man." From The Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living, an unpublished manuscript by Albert Taylor, PI

  I sat behind Helga's wheel once more and watched as the friendly hostess's body was removed from The Shipping Lane. I'd faded out at some point, hadn't been as clued in as I wanted to be after Daniel and I had found her.

  Vague impressions of things like screaming for someone to call the police, the shouts of confusion, the stampede of feet making tracks to the door when the blue lights flashed through those picture-perfect windows. The scene inside had changed from cozy and welcoming to macabre. The patrons had long since left, though the staff had been kept in the main room for questioning. From my vantage point I could see Daniel O'Flannigan, his countenance pale. The flirty bartender and his female counterpart, the three servers, and the chef all huddled around the far end of the bar, eyes huge and disbelieving.

  I'd half expected Hunter to show up. After all, he usually got a call when I found a body. Most of the Boston Police knew me on sight after the incident with the shooting. But it had been two female officers who'd taken my statement. Yes, Lois had seated me. No, I didn't know her, had never seen her before tonight. Yes, I was a PI there for official business. No, I hadn't had anything to do with Lois's divorce proceedings, hadn't been hired by her husband or anyone else she knew.

  I was planning to pay him a visit though, just as soon as I found out who he was. Him as well as all the other employees of The Shipping Lane. Before the police had not so subtly suggested that I ought to take my happy hide out of the pub, I'd heard two of the servers whispering about Lois's ex. And while the police were content to look at all the usual suspects, Lois had been found in a locked room, one Daniel O'Flannigan had opened with a key. I'd told the good detectives as much, but they hadn't seemed interested, even though there was no other way in or out of the office.

  I'd sidled close to eavesdrop on the conversation Daniel was having with the detective in charge. Lois had a key too, according to Mr. O'Flannigan. She hadn't just been a hostess but the day manager, in charge of accepting deliveries and doing inventory before the bar opened for the night. Her key wasn't on her keyring or in her pocket. Anyone could have lifted it from her.

  He hadn't noticed me at all, his gaze unfocused. Shock, most likely.

  My phone buzzed with an incoming text. Mom, where are you?

  Java preserve me, it was after one in the morning. No wonder Mac was worried. She was such a good mother. Too bad that was supposed to be my job.

  Spending the night at Hunter's. Sorry. Forgot to tell you earlier.

  One more lie on the growing pile of them. Or maybe it didn't need to be a lie.

  I would go to Hunter's and sleep in his bed instead of my own, since I knew he was probably up to his eyebrows on his latest case. I didn't want to involve Mac in this. A treasure hunt was one thing, foolish though it seemed. I watched the medical examiner wheel the gurney out through the alley door and load the body into the back of their vehicle. I'd seen enough of Lois's body to know the cause of death was multiple stab wounds. No wonder the police were looking at people who knew her. Stabbing was personal, much more so than a gunshot. And locking the body behind a closed door, essentially hiding it from view instead of leaving her in an alley, could mean the killer was ashamed of his or her actions.

  Daniel O'Flannigan had been up on stage while Lois was being murdered. A man couldn't have a stronger alibi than a roomful of people. I'd seen her myself before the set, seen him not even five minutes later. And after the set had ended, he'd sought me out, had known my name. That meant he'd spoken to Lois because she was the only one with that information. If he had killed her, there would have been blood on him or bloody clothes somewhere on the premises.

  Even as I thought it, the medical examiner shut the doors to the vehicle then climbed behind the wheel, revealing the narrow space between the buildings in all its creepiness. My gaze slid to the dumpster at the far end. Dumpsters were public property. Any old dumbass could rifle through their contents, not just the police.

  I looked back at the cops. They were busy standing guard by the front door, huddled under the awning. No one was making a move toward the alley, to the dumpster.

  Leave it, the smart part of my brain commanded. You'll get arrested for interfering with a police investigation. And what are the chances the killer chucked something into that bin? That would be stupid. Cataclysmically stupid.

  As if in agreement, the rain sheeted down, taunting me.

  I gnawed on my lower lip. Tomorrow was Thursday. What if it was garbage collection day for this street? What if the police didn't think to canvas the dumpster and evidence was lost because no one ventured out in the rain to sift through possible clues? If I found anything, I'd turn it over to Hunter. And I'd scrub up in his shower afterward, so no one would be the wiser.

  Except for me. I twisted my hair up into a knot on top of my head then topped it off with a Red Sox ballcap. And poor Helga, whose seats might never recover from the indignity. That gave me pause, where the thought of jail time didn't.

  "Girl, you need to get your priorities in order." I said it out loud, thinking that maybe if I heard the words, I'd follow the sage advice. No dice though. Taking a deep breath, I switched off the overhead light so no one would see it when the door opened. I'd been fortunate enough not to have parked beneath a streetlight, so as long as I didn't turn the engine on, the casual observer would be unable to tell if the Hellcat was occu
pied. I popped the car door then shucked my raincoat. It wasn't going to keep me dry anyway, not where I was headed, and the light color might get me noticed by the police. Better use it to keep the worst of the crap off the upholstery.

  I slid out of the car into a low crouch, instantly soaked to the skin. The bill of the hat kept the water out of my eyes as I crab-scuttled around the back end of the car. Then, doing my best to look like a patron hurrying home, I rose and strode across the street at a brisk pace.

  I can't speak for other PIs, but when I'm doing something I know I shouldn't, I get a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's hard not to glance around, to see if anyone is watching me do whatever it is I shouldn't be doing. But that sort of furtive glancing is more likely to get one busted than a sure stride and an air of nothing to see here, folks.

  Ignoring the somersaults those sausage rolls were doing in my stomach, I made a beeline for the sidewalk and then an abrupt forty-five-degree pivot into the alley. There were no shouts of outrage, no calls of Hold it, lady. There was also no cover from the torrents of rain, and with the sides of the tall buildings flanking me acting as a wind tunnel, I had to clap my hand on top of the cap to keep it from blowing off.

  "I need a new job," I groused and pried the lid up to reveal the stench of week-old mayonnaise, fryer grease, and rot.

  No evidence lying conveniently on top of the neat bags of trash, no note attached to the murder weapon stating Hi, I'm killer X, and this is why I offed that nice lady. Here's my address. Please come arrest me. Honestly, what was I expecting?

  I was going to have to go into the trash bin. And that was a problem, since I didn't see a stepladder. A svelter woman might have been able to do a pullup until she could toss her leg over. A smarter one would have been home with genius daughter, having told her father to stick it instead of surfing the local refuse. I dragged one of the empty metal cans over to the recycling bin, wincing as it clattered along the pavement, until I could leaver myself up onto the lid. It was a precarious act—the metal can had been battered and wasn't exactly flush with the ground. The plastic lid to the recycling container flexed under my not-so-insubstantial weight, but at least it held as I crawled forward.