The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle (2 page)

“I'll add that to my résumé.” With a smile and another shoulder punch, I left him sitting in the booth and headed for the parking lot and my van.

The van might not be the BMW Z4 I was currently drooling over, but it was a lot more practical in the event-planning business. I wouldn't have been able to haul 101 stuffed Dalmatians to Lulu Vancura's sixth birthday party last night in a Bimmer. They were party favors for 101 of her closest friends who gathered to watch the movie in the theater the Vancuras rented—through me—for the occasion. The party had gone well and I was looking forward to planning many more of Lulu's birthday bashes. Ka-ching. I hadn't thought about it much before, but doing birthday parties created a lot more repeat business for an event planner than doing weddings. I mean, people had birthdays on an annual basis, whereas most folks spread their two or
three weddings out over twenty years. The lucky ones, of course, only wed once.

The van bumped over the railroad tracks and past the sign welcoming visitors to Heaven, Colorado, population 10,096. E
VERYBODY
W
ANTS TO
G
O TO
H
EAVEN,
it said in blue script underneath, quoting the Kenny Chesney song. Heaven wasn't always named Heaven. When I was growing up, it was Walter's Ford. Then, when I was a high school sophomore, the town council, in a bid to attract more tourists and destination wedding business, voted to rename the town. Developers piled on the bandwagon, dubbing housing areas Jubilee Heights and Cherubim Glen and the like. Many of the streets got new names that reflected the town's theme, as well. The town's main drag, where my office is located, was rechristened Paradise Boulevard. (It was formerly John Elway Avenue.) Funny that I would grow up to be an event organizer and benefit from the veritable tide of brides and grooms that washed into town, tickled by the idea of getting married in Heaven.

Eventful! was headquartered on the ground floor in the back of an old three-story building that also housed the Divine Herb, a tea shop (that probably sold more coffee than tea), and a yoga studio. The two-person law firm that had had offices on the second floor closed suddenly last month, and the building owners were trying to rerent the space. I parked on the street and walked around to the French doors that opened onto our reception area, where my part-time assistant, Al Frink, sat at his desk. I shared my new insight about weddings vs. birthdays with him. A student at
Colorado Mesa, he had gelled back the sandy hair that typically flopped over his high forehead. He looked like a teenage escapee from the 1950s in his sweater vest and bow tie, even though he was twenty-two. The college had hooked him up with me for an internship one semester and we'd clicked, so he'd stayed on.

“Cynical much, boss?” he asked in response.

“Realistic,” I countered.

“You should pitch divorce parties, then,” he said. “Lots of booze, a ritual shredding of wedding photos—or better yet, a bonfire—and all the honoree's single pals helping put together a Match-dot-com or eHarmony video. Maybe we could offer a free month's subscription. I'll get with the Match-dot-com folks this afternoon and see what kind of deal we can get.” He pretended to make a note.

“Ha-ha.” Inside, I wondered if he wasn't onto something. I couldn't, offhand, think of a tasteful way to advertise the idea, however.

He grinned, and then told me my prospective client had canceled. I shrugged philosophically. You win some, you lose some. And even when you win some—land a client—you occasionally lose if they're obnoxious or refuse to pay. I asked Al for an update on the several events he was working, and he filled me in, adding his usual too-truthful observations about our clients.

“That Bethany D'Andrea is a harridan. One of my SAT vocab words. Have you ever noticed how she manages to be nasty by only saying what sounds like nice stuff?” He put on a treacly accent. “‘Oh, honey,
you've been so strict with your diet. It's too bad that your green dress is looking tighter.' ‘I just love mauve and teal! I'd've done my house in those colors, too, sweetie, if they weren't so 1990.' Blech.”

I couldn't suppress a grin, because he was so right. “She told me the other day that she thought I was so brave, she admired me so much, for keeping on the trail of Ivy's killer, but then I'd always been brash and impulsive, hadn't I?”

“Harpy,” Al said.

“Shrew.”

“Vixen.”

“Virago.” I was on a roll.

“I'll have to look that one up. Witch.”

“Or something that rhymes with ‘witch.'”

He laughed and turned away to answer the phone. I went into my office, the green, white, and lemon space I found energizing, yet relaxing. My “desk” was a six-foot-long project table. A whiteboard with a huge calendar imprinted on it hung behind it and showed all our bookings going out two years. Yep, we already had three weddings and a family reunion on the books for two summers from now. Even though those far-off commitments sometimes fell victim to breakups or other disasters, it made me feel a bit more confident that Eventful! would survive when I looked at the whiteboard.

The interchange and mention of Ivy Donner dipped me into one of those puddles of sadness that seem to linger on life's path after a loss. Sometimes you could skirt them, edge past them by hanging out with friends,
or losing yourself in work, but sometimes you fell into them and they were deeper than you imagined. My friend Ivy had been murdered three months ago, and it's not like I thought about her every minute of every day, but when her name came up, or something reminded me of her, I felt my mood go from sunny to wilted in a heartbeat. I could have done without the publicity that catching Ivy's killer had netted me, too, despite the fact that it brought a new stream of clients to Eventful! But the
Heaven Herald
had run a front-page piece on the arrest and my part in it, and I anticipated more publicity when the trial started up. It was still a couple of months away, but I'd have to testify and I wasn't looking forward to that, mostly because I'd have to think about Ivy dying every day.

Forcing myself to put aside the melancholy thoughts, I worked out a few details for Elysium's grand opening on Friday, including coordinating with a U.S. representative's scheduler about the congresswoman's attendance. She was in the area anyway for a fund-raiser in Grand Junction, and had promised to drop by. For Derek's sake I was pleased, because that meant the likelihood of more publicity. And all publicity was good publicity, as the maxim went, and Ivy's death had proven in a distasteful way. The afternoon flew by in a flurry of phone calls, e-mails, and a meeting with a Heaven Parks and Rec official to see if he'd authorize painting the gazebo at Lost Alice Lake pink for a client's wedding, as long as she bore the cost and repainted it white after the event. He looked flummoxed
by the request and said he'd have to put it before the town council.

“You sure come up with some off-the-wall ideas, Ms. Johnson,” he said, shaking his head.

“Amy-Faye,” I reminded him. “And don't blame me for this one. It's all the client's idea. Thinks pink is her lucky color and her marriage is doomed if the ceremony doesn't take place in a pink facility.”

“Unless her groom's as nutty as she is, the marriage is doomed anyway,” he said. “I'll get back to you as soon as I talk to the council.”

“The wedding's not till next April, so no hurry.” Thanking him, I crossed the meeting off my list—there's almost nothing more satisfying than striking through a to-do item—and headed for home to change into bartending gear.

T
he pub's staff uniform for female employees was jeans with an orange shirt that tied at the waist and plunged to show cleavage. Not the real me. The men had a simple orange Polo shirt. The top had an embroidered harp—for “Elysium”—over the employee's name. In my case, the name was “Sam” because I was wearing her uniforms, not having time to get one of my own. Since I didn't intend to return to bartending as a full-time career, I was okay with being “Sam” for a few nights, until Derek and Gordon could hire a replacement. As I French-braided my hair to keep it out of the way, I grimaced at the way the orange shirt clashed with my hair and sallowed my clear complexion. Oh well.

When I pulled up at the brewpub parking lot, I noticed two women tucking flyers beneath the windshield wipers of parked cars. Hustling past them so as not to get caught up in a discussion of their cause or business—whatever it was—I entered the pub to find a
scattering of customers downing Angel Ale and Exorcise Your Demons IPA. Even though the grand opening wasn't until Friday, the pub had been open for business for almost two weeks on a limited basis as Derek and Gordon trained their staff and finalized their menu.

Derek was behind the bar and he looked frazzled, even though the customer load was light. A twenty-something with a soul patch slouched between tables, taking orders.

“Thank goodness you're here,” Derek greeted me. “Bernie's late and I need to be in the kitchen. Kolby's on the floor. It's all yours. You can figure it out, can't you?”

He disappeared on the words and I entered the circular bar through the hinged section and familiarized myself with the bar stock, sink setup, glasses, and draft choices. The grid beneath my feet was still firm, not squishy from years of being marinated in beer and alcohol, like the place I worked at in Boulder. Being behind the bar made me feel like I was back at CU, sacrificing sleep for money and grades. Hmm. Ten years on, my life hadn't changed all that much, only now I was giving up sleep to run my own business and I didn't have to worry about finals.

Kolby bellied up to the server's station and said, “Hey. A pitcher of Angel Ale, a Coke, and three Demons. Is your name Sam, too?” he asked, nodding toward my shirt.

He was kidding, right? “Nope. Amy-Faye. Derek's sister. Temp help. Just a couple of days until they replace Sam.”

I studied Gordon's son. He was more slender than his dad but had the same dark blond hair and blue eyes. He shifted from foot to foot while I filled a pitcher, waited for the suds to subside, and topped it off.

“Lucky you,” he said. “I wish I could say the same. My dad's making me work here the rest of the summer. And he's not even paying me! Slave labor. He'd make me work here year-round, I'll bet, except I'm going back to Ft. Collins next month. I was planning on doing some rafting—the rivers're still running really high—but my dad nixed that.” He sounded aggrieved.

I figured if his dad was paying his tuition, that counted as a salary, but I didn't say so. I added the Coke to his tray and gave him a noncommittal smile.

“Maybe we could hang out sometime,” he suggested, eyes roving over me in a way that told me the apple hadn't fallen far from the tree. “I've always liked redheads.”

“Who doesn't?” I agreed, not bothering to tell him I didn't routinely “hang out” with whiny, underemployed men ten years my junior. My taste ran more to well-seasoned cops and a certain blond lawyer . . .

“Hey, that's a good one.” Kolby's laugh had a neighing quality to it.

Without wanting to side with Gordon on anything, I found myself agreeing with him about his son's loserhood. I immediately felt bad about the thought, since I'd only known the kid for two minutes.
Sometimes that's long enough,
my unkinder side said.

“Looks like your table's getting impatient,” I hinted,
eager to get rid of him. I blew out a long breath as he finally sauntered away.

“Hey, what's a gal gotta do to get a brew around here?”

“Maud!” I swung around happily at the sound of my friend's whiskey-and-cigarettes voice. An original member of the Readaholics book club, Maud Bell held a brew menu at arm's length and squinted.

“Don't get old, Amy-Faye,” she advised, pulling rectangular reading glasses from a pocket of her camouflage pants and perching them on her nose. “It sucks.”

“Noted. What'll you have? The Exorcise Your Demons IPA is my fave.”

“Give me one of those.” She slid the menu down the bar.

Sixty years old and six feet tall, she had a wiry build and weathered skin that testified to her summer and fall occupations as a hunting and fishing guide. In the winter, she fixed computers and designed Web sites. All year round, she posted regularly on her conspiracy-theory blog, Out to Get You. Her hair was an au naturel mix of silver, white, and iron, currently blunt-cut to chin length, and her upper lip was a shade fuller than her lower, overhanging it by a smidge, like she was perpetually about to drink from a straw. She wore a tan camp shirt tucked into her camo pants. “Have you finished
Orient Express
?” she asked, taking a long drink of the beer I set before her. “It's good.”

I wasn't sure if she meant the book or the brew. “Yeah, but we can't talk about it without the others.”

“Brilliant book. There's a reason that Christie woman
has sold more books than anyone else on the planet, although that Poirot is an arrogant arsehole, as the Brits might say.”

“Of course you liked it,” I laughed. “It's about a conspiracy.”

Her lopsided smile pressed wrinkles into her cheeks and acknowledged my hit. Before she could respond, Bernadette “Bernie” Kloster slipped under the bar without bothering to raise the hinged section. “Sorry I'm late. The sitter was late. If I had a buck for every excuse she comes up with . . .”

A sprite of a woman barely five feet tall with sandy hair that tended toward frizzy, Bernie had gone to school with Derek, five years behind me and Brooke and Ivy. She married straight out of high school, had a couple of kids, divorced, and was trying to earn a teaching degree while taking care of her boys and working two jobs. On top of that, she bartended for my events sometimes. I tried to steer work her way whenever I could. She had her orange shirt knotted higher on her midriff than mine (showing off a tiny waist I couldn't help envying), and as I watched, she undid an extra button, exposing more bony chest. She was cute and even sexy in a pixieish sort of way.

“I need the tips,” she explained matter-of-factly. “Seen Gordon this evening?”

Something airy yet tense in her voice caught my attention. “Nope. Just Derek. Why?”

“Good. I don't need another ass-chewing for being late. That man's always been unpredictable, but these
days he's verging on psychotic. When he asks you out, you should say no.”

“Already did, but why do you say that?”

“Trying to pay it forward and save other women from making the same stupid-ass mistakes I made.” She grabbed a damp rag and wiped the bar hard, as if trying to erase Gordon rather than sop up a splash of beer. “I'm pretty sure there isn't a woman in a five-county area he hasn't hit on.”

“Not me,” Maud put in with a twinkle.

I introduced the two of them, and Bernie said, “Count yourself lucky. Listen to me. Going all negative on you. I'm sorry. I'm not usually a whiner. Put it down to not enough sleep, too much studying, unreliable babysitters, and Billy getting lippy now that he's turned eleven. Says he doesn't need a ‘baby' sitter anymore. If he hadn't broken his ankle playing Spider-Man on the roof three Sundays back when I left him alone, I might almost believe him. They talk about teenage girls having mouths on them, but so far I'd back Billy against any of them, and he's still two years away from thirteen. Gawd.”

We laughed. A gaggle of customers came in and kept me busy for a while, drawing beers and mixing margaritas. Luckily, I still practiced that particular skill at home, especially when the Readaholics met at my place, and I whipped up a batch with ease. Bernie worked the floor with Kolby, turning on the smile and sass and earning some healthy tips, I was sure. Maud left after the one beer and said she'd see me tomorrow night at Brooke's house for the Readaholics meeting.

Shortly after seven, the happy hour crowd dwindled and Kolby took off, saying he had “plans.” It wasn't my place to supervise him, so I didn't ask if his dad knew he was skating off so early. Bernie and I exchanged a glance that said we were both happy to see him go. I was washing mugs in the sink when a burly man with a beard approached the bar. Without introducing himself, he asked, “Gordon or Derek around? Need to talk to one of 'em.”

“I'll find them,” I said, knowing from his tone that he wasn't here to tell them they'd won the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes. Wiping my hands on my jeans, I signaled to Bernie, who took my place behind the bar. “Can you hold down the fort a sec?”

“Sure.” She gave the man a smile and slid a coaster in front of him.

Happy to escape the bar for a few minutes, I poked my head into the kitchen, but the workers said they hadn't seen either man in over an hour. Mounting the stairs to the third floor, I looked in their offices but found no one except the janitor—Foster? Forrest?—who was emptying Gordon's trash can. I'd never been in Gordon's lair, and I looked around curiously. A wooden desk with cubbyholes and a simple glass-front bookcase were centered on a rug with a worn floral pattern. Framed photos and blueprints of the building in its early days hung evenly on one wall, peopled by men in turn-of-the-century work clothes. I suspected the furnishings were left over from the building's factory days. I could totally see a waistcoated man in Edwardian garb putting his bowler on the iron coat tree
that currently held Gordon's golf Windbreaker and umbrella. A laptop computer and high-end ergonomic desk chair struck anachronistic notes. I wondered if Gordon had gone through all the desk's cubbies looking for secrets, or routine invoices or notes from a bygone era. Somehow I didn't think so; he didn't strike me as the type.

“On the roof,” Foster said, even though I hadn't asked him anything. “Smoking.” His wrinkled nose said he disapproved.

“Thanks.” Skipping the elevator, since I hadn't gone to yoga that morning, I jogged up another flight and paused by the door that led to the roof. It was closed, but I could hear the yelling through it.

“—can't do that, Gord. You'll sink the pub.”

Derek's voice, sounding angry and desperate.

“—whatever the hell I want to . . . my money—”

Gordon, sounding implacable and arrogant. I hesitated, not wanting to walk into their fight, and not wanting to go away in case Gordon turned violent with Derek, as he had with Susan this morning.

“—don't try to stop me,” Gordon bellowed. “If you do, I'll ruin you.”

“—handle this through an arbitrator,” Derek said.

Gordon answered with a string of curses. I bit down hard on my lip.

“—won't let you—”

“—can't stop me, you f—”

The thud of flesh against flesh had me barreling through the door. I burst onto the roof, a long expanse of weathered boards with a waist-high masonry wall,
vents and air-conditioning compressor, planters, and a small shed. I found the two men locked together, trying to land punches without letting go of each other. It was still plenty light enough to see them clearly. Blood spotted Derek's shirt, and Gordon's pants pocket was ripped. They knocked against a planter and it rocked, the dwarf spruce inside it swaying. They were muttering and swearing at each other in guttural voices, words indistinguishable.

Gordon landed a punch into Derek's gut and he crumpled forward. From that position he wrapped his arms around Gordon's knees and took the bigger man down with him. They landed with a thud and began rolling across the rooftop, neither one gaining an advantage. I dithered about what to do, pulling out my cell phone to call for help—was I going to call the cops on my own brother?—but then remembered Derek's fury when I'd summoned a teacher to keep him from getting beaten up on the playground when he was in fourth grade and I was in sixth. I put my phone back in my pocket and started toward them as Gordon, who outweighed Derek by a good forty pounds, ended up on top, straddling Derek's chest. Both men were breathing hard and the punch Gordon threw at Derek's face lacked power and skidded off his cheek. I thought about throwing myself on Gordon's back and peeling him off Derek, but then I saw a better way.

A hose for watering the potted plants lay neatly coiled by the faucet and I turned it on full force and directed the cold water at the fighting men. As the stream splashed into his face, Gordon leaped up with a
curse. Derek rolled away and staggered to his feet, bent over with his hands on his knees. They were good and soaked, I saw with satisfaction, which was what they deserved for behaving like a couple of middle school hooligans. Gordon shook his head and water droplets sprayed from his longish hair. He had a scrape on his face, and the buttons were torn off his shirt so it gaped open, displaying a furry torso. Blood dripped from his elbow and nose. He looked confused, like a man waking up from a nightmare, or someone trying to listen to a far-off voice. I don't know why, but I felt sorry for him, even though he'd just been whaling on my brother.

“Amy-Faye, what are you—?” Derek started, his voice verging on angry, but his expression embarrassed.

“There's a man downstairs who needs to talk to one of you,” I said calmly, even though my heart was beating fast.
Idiots.
“Sounded important.” Crossing to the faucet, I turned off the water. Not waiting for a reply, I marched toward the door, reasonably confident they weren't going to resume their fight. In fact, Gordon was pulling out a cigarette and heading toward the wall by the time I reached the stairs. A match flared. The way he hunched his shoulders said “keep away” and I was glad to comply. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Derek coming toward me, limping.