I’ve never been able to figure out Nick’s age. His hair is pure white, but his only wrinkles are the laugh lines at his eyes. He’s as pale as I’m dark—must have Scandinavian relations somewhere down the line—and people with that complexion tend to wrinkle easily. Nick and I go back a long ways. I always knew he was different from other people, but it isn’t a difference you can put a finger on, just a little extra-special something, a warmth you feel when he’s around. It wasn’t until the strange business with Jeffrey Dawson that I realized maybe there was more to my old friend than I had guessed.
Before Nick walked in Greenwood Tavern that day, I just figured Jeffrey had seen the movie Harvey a few too many times. But he was no Jimmy Stewart. Yeah, I know Jeffrey was recently divorced and out of work, but the guy had become unbelievably whiny and self-centered. And yeah, I know there’s a legitimate place for self-pity, I mean that’s part of my job, but once Jeffrey started that downward slide, nobody else in the universe existed except in relation to him. He’d been a successful corporate type before it all went wrong, “climbing the ladder” as they say.
It got to the point where I cringed every time Jeffrey came through the door—partly because I was coming to feel responsible for giving him the booze. I’d never had to feel that way before. Greenwood’s a small town, and nearly all my regulars are there just to relax with friends and wind down or find a listening ear. I pride myself on calling cabs for anyone who’s had a bit too much and giving newly carded kids the straight talk. Occasionally things get a bit out of hand, but that’s the exception. I’d never had to deal with an outright alcoholic before, let alone an alcoholic who claimed to be best friends with an invisible white rabbit. Jeffrey’s insistence on saving a seat for “Leopold” was becoming a real problem on busy evenings. The night before, I practically had to break up a fight when Cyrus Whittaker started to take “Leopold’s” seat, the last unoccupied stool at the bar.
So I was especially happy when Nick opened the door that afternoon. Jeffrey had been the bar’s sole customer since I opened at one, bending my ear until it felt like a pretzel.
“Good to see you, man.” I gave him a big smile. Nick doesn’t live in Greenwood, but he passes through often enough and always stops by for a drink and a long chat.
Jeffrey glanced up. He was already well sloshed, and it wasn’t even four o’clock. “Hey, Bud,” he mumbled at me, “who’s your buddy? Bud—buddy—get it?” Jeffrey reared back his head and exploded into a fit of laughter.
“Looks like you’ve got your hands full,” Nick said as he came up to the bar. He turned to Jeffrey, looking him straight in the eyes. “My name is Nick. And you’re—?”
“Jeffrey P. Dawson.” The drunk tried to draw himself up, but he was way over-pickled, even for how he’d been carrying on. It looked like a long night, and I was grateful and more than relieved for Nick’s company. “I’d like you to meet another friend,” Jeffrey slurred, straightening his tie with a pitiful attempt at dignity. “Leopold, my best pal in the world.” He gestured to the empty barstool on his other side.
I turned my back, rolling my eyes, and started washing up glasses, but didn’t run the water too hard. I was curious to hear how Nick would handle this. The man’s a born peacemaker, but he doesn’t cut corners or take the easy way out. One New Year’s Eve, I saw him break up a fight between two drunks by singing a lullaby. By the end of the tune, the two guys had their arms over each other’s shoulders and were singing along, blubbering like a pair of two-year-olds. There’s something almost magic about the way Nick can deal with difficult people or situations.
“Leopold.” Nick’s voice was genial. “It’s been a long time, my friend. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Playing along. It took me by surprise; Nick’s never rude, but he’s not afraid of hard truths, either. It was the first time I’d ever heard a lie pass his lips, and the act disturbed me more than it should. I mean, a simple white lie, right? How many times had I done the same thing myself? But I expected more from Nick. Disappointment rocked my gut with a bitter taste.
A prolonged silence followed Nick’s remark. Weird. Except for trips to the restroom, it was the first time Jeffrey had shut his mouth all day. But the relief didn’t last.
“Nick can see him.” Jeffrey raised his voice, petulant like a child’s.
I turned round at that and gave Nick a reproachful look.
“It’s not Bud’s doing,” Nick said to the drunk. “It’s Leopold’s. He doesn’t want to be seen.”
“Then how is it that old man Whittaker saw him last night?” Jeffrey demanded belligerently.
Because he was humoring you, just like Nick’s doing now. But I kept the thought to myself. You get to be good at that, tending bar.
“Whittaker?” Nick raised an eyebrow at me.
I shrugged, annoyed with my old friend for humoring Jeffrey instead of giving him the straight talk I’d been hoping for. “Guy comes in now and then. Businessman.”
“Works at Chumley’s,” Jeffrey said. “Tha’s where I used to . . . used ta work.” The slur turned into a half-sob. “Whittaker’s the son of a bitch who got me fired. And now he’s gone and threatened Leopold, too. Said he’d kill the damn rabbit. Those were his exact words.” Jeffrey enunciated the last sentence with surprising clarity before breaking down into a full-out blubber.
Nick took him outside to get his hysterics under control, giving me a little break before the evening rush. It was a relief to be alone without Jeffrey’s constant babble.
“Wish you were there, Harvey,” I said to the empty room, “or Leopold, or whatever you’re called. I could use some feel-good Jimmy Stewart right now.”
But the peace and quiet didn’t last long. Ten minutes later, the door opened again.
“Afternoon, Bud.”
“Hey, Sam.”
Detective Samuel Cartwright is the officer in charge of serious crime in our town. Mostly it’s the occasional drug bust, but like most small towns Greenwood is pretty quiet. Even the drugs here tend to be small-time.
“This isn’t a social visit, Bud, it’s business.” Sam gave me a sober look, his blue eyes bloodshot, his mouth pressed into a strained line. “There’s been a murder.”
“Murder!” I couldn’t believe it. Not in my town.
“Cyrus Whittaker,” Sam said. “He was last seen in this bar.”
I dropped the glass I was drying, and it fell with a crash.
“What do you know, Bud?” Sam narrowed his eyes at me. “You almost jumped out of your skin when I said his name.”
My mouth flopped open, but nothing came out. It took me a moment to recover. “Thursday’s a busy night,” I hedged. “I was waiting tables over there in the back. Whittaker was up at the bar. And I jumped because murders don’t happen in Greenwood.”
“Well, one just did. Come on, Bud. Help me out here. Who was he sitting next to?”
“Um . . .” I bent down to sweep up the broken glass, trying to get my thoughts together while I was still alone with Sam.
Sam kept his mouth shut, but I could feel his eyes boring into my back as I emptied the dustpan into the trash. Uncomfortable, I got out a clean cloth and started wiping down the counter. Annoying as Jeffrey had become, I was reluctant to tell the detective a story that sounded so incriminating.
“Come on, Bud. I know you’ve got a good memory.”
The silence stretched on, and I felt my defenses crumbling. It was bound to get out sooner or later, after all, once the regulars started to arrive, and Sam might as well hear it from me.
“I saw Cyrus last night when he first came in. There was an empty stool next to Jeffrey Dawson, and Whittaker wanted to sit there, but Jeffrey wouldn’t let him. Claimed it was already in use, that he’d brought a friend. Whittaker raised his voice, and next thing they were shouting.” I grimaced at the memory. “But, Sam, you’ve seen Jeffrey when he’s had a few. He wouldn’t have enough coordination to hurt a kitten.”
“I was a cop in the city my first few years,” Sam replied. “You’d be surprised, Bud, what people can do if they’re mad enough, or scared enough—or drunk enough.”
Guilt tugged at me. Irrational, I know. I mean, I’m a bartender, right? I do my best, but—if Jeffrey’d been drunk enough to slug Cyrus last night, I was the one who’d put those drinks in his hands. I’d been on the point of cutting Jeffrey off last night, refusing to give him any more booze—but then things had gotten busy and it slipped my mind. A sick feeling hit the pit of my stomach. I clenched the cleaning cloth in my hands.
“It’s not your fault, Bud. Jeffrey’s an adult. If he’s the one who killed Cyrus, he’s responsible for his actions. Where is he anyway? I thought Jeffery practically lived in your bar. Whether he’s guilty or not, I need to take him into the station for a little talk.”
“He just left,” I said, “but I’m guessing he’ll be back.” Now I felt guilty for being mad at Nick. He’d played along only to gain Jeffrey’s trust and then used that to give me a break. He’s always had my back.
“Can you at least tell me how Cyrus was killed, or where he was found?”
“One of the employees found him this morning in Chumley’s parking lot. Stab wound to the chest. Wife says he never came home last night.”
I swallowed. That looked bad.
“Tell me more about this fight,” Sam said.
“It wasn’t a fight,” I said. “More of a shouting match. Cyrus went ahead and sat down on the empty barstool. I guess that’s what ticked Jeffrey off.”
“What’d he say?”
“That Cyrus had pushed Leopold off and hurt one of his legs.”
“Leopold? Who’s that? I thought you said the stool was unoccupied when Cyrus sat down.”
“It was.” I gave Sam a twisted grin. “Leopold is Jeffrey’s imaginary friend.”
“Good Lord. Dawson’s really gone off the deep end, hasn’t he?”
I shrugged. “It’s harmless enough.”
“Not if it resulted in Whittaker getting killed.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Shit, Bud. Half the murders in Center City happen because a bar fight went wrong.”
“Greenwood isn’t downtown Philly,” I said. “We don’t have bar fights here.”
But my mind was going ninety miles an hour, doing a little panic-dance down the freeway of horrible probabilities. Before this moment, I’d always liked my job. Now I was starting to wonder if I’d enabled a murderer.
Or if I was helping to convict an innocent man.
The door opened, and Nick and Jeffrey walked in.
“Jeffrey Dawson,” Sam said. “You’re coming down to the station with me. Cyrus Whittaker was murdered last night, and I’ve got a few questions.”
Jeffrey dropped his jaw, staring at Sam dumbfounded. I could swear his surprise was genuine. Then he shifted his eyes to me.
“It’ll be better if you go along,” I told him.
“Leopold?” Jeffrey’s gaze found the corner barstool. “What do you say?” Silence. I arched a brow at Sam. “All right, then. I’ll go.”
Once the door shut behind Jeffrey and Sam, I turned to my friend. “If Jeffrey got drunk enough to murder Cyrus, I’m the one that put those drinks in his hands. And if he’s innocent, I’m responsible, too, because I told Sam about his quarrel with Cyrus last night. We’ve got to find out the truth.”
Nick looked over at the empty barstool that Jeffrey had addressed as “Leopold,” an attentive expression crossing his face. Had Jeffrey told him more about the fight? Maybe he’d even confessed the murder to Nick. There’s something about my old friend that invites unexpected confidences, even from people he’s just met. Not wanting to disturb Nick’s train of thought, I went into the stockroom to see if there was enough beer to last through the weekend.
When I came back to the bar, Nick turned to me with a solemn gaze. Oh God, I thought. This is it. Jeffrey’s confessed. How am I ever going to live, knowing it’s partly my fault? That I’m the one that gave him the drink . . .
“Bud.” Nick’s voice was serious. “Jeffrey is innocent. Leopold says he was with him all last night.”
My mouth flopped open for the second time that day. If this kept up, I’d have to change my name to Fish Face.
Nick hopped over the counter like he had wings. Before I knew what was going on, I found myself sitting at one of the tables in the back, with Nick in the chair opposite.
“I know this will be hard for you to accept,” Nick said quietly. “Leopold!” He raised his voice. “I could use your help here.” The words seemed to reverberate in the empty room.
Nick had arranged things so I was facing the bar. When he shouted the invisible rabbit’s name, I couldn’t help looking over at the vacant barstool that was “Leopold’s” customary seat. I thought it had to be a trick of the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the glass transom on top of the door, but as I stared, something seemed to coalesce out of the shadows, a large white vaporous something that reached from floor to ceiling, about the size of a person in width. As I watched, the vague white shape seemed to make its way down the room until it was standing by our table. I looked up and saw two bright black eyes, black like an animal’s, with no trace of iris or whites. The eyes were part of a long, animal-shaped face. I could just make out tendrils of whiskers beside the creature’s mouth. Two long trails of white that resembled a large rabbit’s ears floated above the thing’s head.
If I were a screaming type, I would have screamed.
“It’s all right, Bud,” Nick said in a soothing voice. “Leopold is really your friend. You’ve just never seen him before.”
This couldn’t be happening. I hadn’t had enough coffee or something. Maybe I hadn’t had enough sleep. Yeah, that was it. I hadn’t slept all that well last night, worrying about the near-fight I’d broken up in my bar. Worried about Jeffrey—the ungrateful louse. And now it’d all caught up with me and I’d fallen asleep in the middle of the day. Yeah, that was it. I was having a dream. Or maybe a nightmare. I took a deep breath and relaxed. If this was a dream, I’d just play along until I woke up. Then I’d tell Nick about it and we’d have a good laugh.
“Hey, Leopold.” I gave the wispy-looking rabbit thing a big slap-happy grin. “Good to see you, man.”
Nick squinted at me across the table, his brows furrowed in concern. “Bud? You don’t sound like yourself. Did you have something to drink while I was gone?”
“Of course not!” Indignation made me forget this was only some dumb dream. “You know me better than that, Nick. You know I’d never drink on the job.”
“It’s just . . . I didn’t think you’d believe in Leopold, even if you could see him.”
“Oh, that.” I waved a dismissive hand, relaxed again, and leaned back in the chair. “Weird things happen in dreams, Nick. Nothing to do but accept ’em, right?”
Nick’s face cleared. “So, you think this is a dream?”
“Sure. What else could it be?” I gave him a big smile.
“What would it take to convince you this is real?”
Weird. I couldn’t remember ever having a dream where someone asked me that before.
I thought about it—and that was weird, too. I mean, when do you ever stop and think when you’re actually in a dream? A little prickle of uneasiness tinged in my gut. “I’ve always heard people say if you could feel a pinch— Ow!”
Nick had moved like lightning.
I stared at my old friend, suddenly shaken. “No.” I stood up and backed away, nearly stumbling over my chair. “No.” I pointed at the big white thing standing in the middle of my bar. “Damn thing,” I said. “It doesn’t exist. It can’t.” I could feel sweat pop out on my forehead.
“Donner and Blitzen,” Nick said, looking up at the big white thing with rabbit eyes and rabbit ears. “I knew he’d take it bad.” The goofy Christmas reference made me smile in spite of myself. Nick’s always kidding around like that, because of his name.
I plopped down on a chair and covered my face, like a little kid trying to shut out the bogeyman. When I sneaked a peek between my fingers, the white ghost-looking rabbit thing was gone. I let out a big sigh, leaned my arms on the table, and put my head down.
The fragrant aroma of freshly brewed coffee made me glance up. A full, steaming cup of joe sat next to my hand. Nick must have gotten it for me while I was conked out. I picked it up and took a long swallow. The brew was better than I remembered.
“Sorry, Nick,” I said. “I just had this really weird dream.” I took another swig of coffee. “I can’t stop thinking about Jeffrey. I mean, Jeffrey’s not the kind of guy who goes around killing people—even if he is a pain in the ass. But if he had enough to drink last night, that might have changed. That’s what Sam said. He was a cop in the city. He knows about these things. I knew Jeffrey was going over the limit. I should have stopped his drinks, I should have called a cab and made darn sure that he got in it.”
“Do you think Sam’s right, that Jeffrey could have done it if he were drunk enough?”
“I don’t know what to think. I mean, I’m sure Sam knows his stuff. He’s been on the force here in Greenwood for nearly twenty years. But still . . . Dammit, Nick, the fact is that if Jeffrey did kill old Whittaker, then it’s partly my fault.”
“And if Jeffrey is innocent?”
“That’s the thing, Nick. It’ll eat at me if we don’t double-check. It’s gonna made Sam mad, though, horning in on his investigation, but it sure looked to me like he was jumping to conclusions, hauling Jeffrey away so fast.”
“Would Sam object if we make a condolence call?” Nick gave me a smile.
I grinned back in relief. “When do we leave?”
The door creaked open and a petite woman with blonde bouffant hair walked in. “Bud?” She stopped and looked around the bar.
“Back here, Mary.” I waved.
Mary helps me out on Friday and Saturday nights. She’s an older woman, a widow, and surprisingly good at handling any problems that come up. You wouldn’t think someone four feet eleven would make a good bouncer, but she’s the best. She likes the part-time work, says it helps pay the bills and keeps her sharp.
Mary came over to say hello to Nick, and I gave her the news about Cyrus’s death.
“Listen, Mary, can you hold the fort for an hour or two?”
“Sure, Bud. Sounds like you’ve had an awful afternoon. And you said Sam’s taken Jeffrey away for questioning?”
“Yeah.” I looked her in the eye. Mary is smart and has almost a sixth sense about people. “What do you think? Could Jeffrey have done it?”
“I don’t know, Bud.” She shook her head. “I mean, Jeffrey’s not a mean drunk, not at all. But Sam’s seen a lot more than we have. He could be right.”
***
We checked the computer in back to get Whittaker’s address. It wasn’t far, and I felt like a good walk after being stuck inside all afternoon. Nick said he’d like to stretch his legs, too. Guy’s surprisingly fit for someone that bulky.
It was still light out when we left. Soft spring air caressed my face, and the daffodils I’d planted last fall cheered me up in spite of our somber errand. The weather was unseasonably warm for early April.
Whittaker’s house was a big, sprawling pile on a block with other big, fancy houses that had pretensions. Pillared columns like Tara’s flanked either side of the porch, rising up to the second story, and the yew and boxwood shrubberies had all been trimmed into unnatural and undoubtedly expensive shapes. I rang the doorbell and pulled nervously at the tie I’d thrown on at the last minute.
The door was answered by a young woman in black, who quickly corrected me when I addressed her as “Mrs. Whittaker.”
“I’ll see if Mrs. Whittaker’s busy,” she said primly. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“My name is Bud Tanner, and this is Nick Christianson. I was a friend of her husband’s and just heard about his, um, unfortunate demise. We wanted to pay our respects.”
“Do you have a card?”
“Who is it, Agnes?” A pretty, middle-aged woman with graying hair appeared behind the maid. She was dressed simply, in a plain black dress, but everything from her stylish upswept hairdo to the discreet pearls at her ears and throat whispered old money.
I repeated my lines and Mrs. Whittaker ushered us inside to a room off the entrance hall. A huge fireplace dominated the wall opposite. On my left, tall casement windows looked out on the front lawn and street. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves took up the rest of the wall space, and two white sofas faced each other across a coffee table in the middle of the room. Mrs. Whittaker settled herself on one of the sofas, and Nick and I took the other.
We appeared to be the only guests, and that was surprising. A small town like Greenwood, you expect people to come out and support each other when there’s been a crisis like a death in the family. I knew Cyrus wasn’t a popular guy, but it was still a shock to see how isolated his widow seemed to be.
The maid, Agnes, returned with tea and a tray of cookies, like something you’d see on Masterpiece Theatre, then left, closing the door.
“Did you know Cyrus from Chumley’s?” Mrs. Whittaker asked. “I don’t remember seeing you at any of the office parties, but I realize not everyone goes to those affairs.”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “Mr. Whittaker was one of my regular customers at Greenwood Tavern.”
Her expression shifted subtly. I’d been prepared for a snooty response once I revealed I was just a lowly barkeep, but it wasn’t that. Mrs. W. may have dressed like a society snob, but nothing in her voice or manner was snobbish. It was more like . . . well, fear.
“Tea, gentlemen?” she said brightly, as if to cover up her reaction. We nodded in unison, and Mrs. Whittaker busied herself pouring liquid from the silver teapot into dainty white china cups. It gave me a chance to study her unobserved, and I was a little surprised to note that her eyes bore no trace of red, though there were dark circles beneath, which her carefully applied makeup couldn’t quite conceal. As she lifted the teapot to fill a cup for herself, the long sleeves of her dress slid back, revealing a dark bruise on one arm. Setting the pot down, she self-consciously adjusted the sleeves, pulling them down to cover her wrists.
“What was Cyrus like, at your tavern?” she asked. “I know it sounds like a strange question, but he spent so much time at his office, and when he’d work late, well, sometimes he was wound rather tight.”
“That’s a pretty fair description,” I said cautiously, not sure what she was getting at.
“I suppose what I was trying to say is, I wonder if he was a different person, there. If he was more . . . relaxed.”
It was a strange question. I mean, she was his wife, right? Wouldn’t she know what Cyrus was like when he relaxed?
“Um . . .” Truth was, Cyrus, unlike Jeffrey, had been a mean drunk. If he stuck to one or two drinks, he’d be all right, but more than that, and I’d have to watch out. He’d never been in brawls, exactly, that wasn’t old Whittaker’s style, but he always had an edge about him. To be honest, I’d never liked the guy. Now I cleared my throat, trying to think what to say.
“Well, Mrs. Whittaker, drink takes different people different ways. With Cyrus—Mr. Whittaker—I don’t know that he ever quite got away from thinking about his business affairs. I really can’t say that I’ve ever seen your husband relaxed.”
Mrs. Whittaker kept her gaze down, veiling her expression. I glanced over at Nick, uncertain what to say next, and he came to the rescue, like he always does.
“Do you have other family, Mrs. Whittaker?” he asked sympathetically.
“My son,” she said. “He and his father didn’t get on, I’m afraid. They haven’t spoken in years.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Does your son live around here?”
“Yes, he’s just over in Fairfax Township, a few miles down the road. Cyrus didn’t approve, but I still kept in touch with him.”
“Of course you did,” Nick said.
So, I wondered, why wasn’t he here?
“The police went over to question him. Do you suppose they think he did it?” She lifted her eyes to us, big, brown, and tortured. “I couldn’t bear it if something happened to him. But they were out of town, visiting Sarah’s family and just got back this morning. So he can’t be a suspect, thank God.” Her shoulders slumped and a shuddering sigh escaped her lips, the first signs of emotion she’d shown. “Not that he’d ever do such a thing,” she added, straightening her spine, “but I’ve heard too many stories of innocent men arrested and put away for life.”
“I guess the police talked to you, too?” I said.
“Yes, a Detective Cartwright came by.”
“Detective Cartwright told me Cyrus didn’t come home last night,” I said. “That must have been hard for you.”
“Cyrus often stayed late at the office, late enough that he didn’t get home until I was in bed.” Mrs. Whittaker sounded strangely detached, but perhaps the full reality of her husband’s death hadn’t yet sunk in. “I didn’t realize what had happened until the police called this morning. Agnes had just arrived, so she went upstairs to check his bed and saw that it hadn’t been slept in.”
“Mrs. Whittaker.” Agnes opened the door. “The funeral home returned your call.”
“I’m sorry, gentlemen.” Mrs. Whittaker rose. “You must excuse me.”
Agnes hovered protectively over her mistress and shot us an anxious look. I wondered if she had been eavesdropping. Nick and I said our good-byes and left.
Back on Main Street, I pulled out my smart phone and googled “Whittaker” and “Fairfax.”
“Think this is him?” I showed Nick the screen.
“The son?” he said. “Yes, that’s a good idea.”
We hurried back to the tavern and got in my car.
***
Whittaker Junior’s place was a two-story red brick affair with a white picket fence, on a block of similar houses. A tricycle was parked on the walk that led to the front stoop, where a headless Barbie doll lounged next to a tattered stuffed rabbit. I rang the doorbell and Nick picked up the doll.
A man who looked in his late twenties answered the door. He had dark curly hair and his mother’s brown eyes. “Yes?”
Nick handed him the headless doll. “Your daughter appears to be creative when it comes to her toys.”
The young man chuckled. “It’s her brother who’s the ‘creative’ one, as you call it. He can’t let her things alone.”
“Younger brother?” Nick said with a twinkle.
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” The man gave Nick a smile. “Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you?”
I cleared my throat. “We just came from your mother’s house. I knew your father, and just, um, wanted to pay our respects.”
“Respects?” Whittaker’s expression darkened into a scowl and he barked out a humorless laugh. “My father hated my guts and the feeling was mutual. I didn’t kill him, but congrats to whoever did.”
“He was a customer at my bar, Greenwood Tavern.” I stuck my hands in my pockets, feeling more awkward by the second. “We weren’t exactly friends, but . . .” I shrugged, thinking I should have planned what to say.
“Is my mom all right?” Whittaker said anxiously. “She phoned me this morning, but we were on the road. The police came by as soon as we got in, and then Sarah, my wife, had to get ready for work. She’s a nurse at the hospital and has the late-afternoon early-evening shift. I was just getting the kids dressed and cleaned up before we head over. My mom doesn’t like any mess.”
“Yes, she’s fine,” I assured him. “She seems to be taking it well, and the maid is there to look after her.”
“I’m sure she is taking it well,” the son said. “My father was a mean bastard.” He started to say something else and then shut his mouth, his lips tightening into a thin line.
I thought of the bruise I’d seen on his mother’s wrist and of how cutting and mean Cyrus could be when he had a few drinks in him. I’d never seen him actually hit anyone in my bar, but I’d seen the contained violence in his eyes and it wasn’t hard to imagine him coming home and taking it out on his family. Not something I would have suspected, however, before talking to his wife and son.
I couldn’t help asking, “And what did the police have to say?”
Whittaker looked unconcerned. “It’s no secret we didn’t get along, but I’ve got a solid alibi for all last night. My wife’s youngest sister just got engaged, and there was a big dinner to celebrate. Her parents live over in Harrisburg, and we were at a restaurant there until after midnight, then slept at their house. We just drove back late this morning. The cops were practically on our doorstep as soon as we got out of the car.”
That sounded solid enough. But maybe Whittaker had paid someone else to do his father in. The timing seemed almost too convenient. If Cyrus had been violent with his wife and the son found out, it was motive enough for the crime.
“I won’t keep you, then.” I extended a hand.
He shook hands with me and Nick, then closed the door.
As we drove back to the bar, I told Nick my suspicions. “Hard to hide something like that in a small place like Greenwood,” I mused aloud, “but then Mrs. Whittaker doesn’t appear to have any friends. Nobody there in that big house except her and her maid.”
“I have to admit it sounds plausible,” Nick said, his voice troubled. “But I certainly hope that you’re wrong.”
“I hope so, too. But where does that leave us? Could it have been Jeffrey?”
“If Cyrus is that ill-tempered, he must have stepped on other toes,” Nick said. “You told me he was found in the parking lot of his business, after all. Perhaps he was attacked by a disgruntled employee. Leopold . . .” His voice trailed off, and I remembered what he’d said in my dream: Leopold says he was with him all last night.
“Kill the wabbit,” I said jokingly, trying to hide my discomfort. “Heck of a reason for killing a guy.”
Nick looked out the window and said nothing.
***
Back at the bar, things were in full Friday-night mode. I couldn’t help sneaking a glance at “Leopold’s” seat and was thankful to see it occupied by an ordinary-looking man. Mary looked relieved when she saw us walk in. The smell of food made me realize I’d forgotten to eat dinner, and I headed to the back and made two ham and cheese sandwiches for me and Nick.
“I’ll see you later, Bud,” Nick said. He wrapped his sandwich in foil and placed it in his pocket. “I think I’ll go over to the police station and see if Jeffrey’s still there.” Typical Nick, looking out for a stranger.
“Thanks, Nick. I’m sure he could use the moral support.”
I wolfed down half a sandwich and went to help Mary.
“Could you get drinks for the big party at the back?” she asked, handing me the order slip.
“Sure thing.”
I took the slip and got out a tray, my head buzzing with suspicions as I poured and mixed drinks. What if Cyrus had made unwanted advances to the maid? We had only her word for it that his bed hadn’t been slept in. She could have put something in his drink and then, while he was asleep, dragged him out to Chumley’s parking lot. Maybe he’d come home drunk and horny and she’d stabbed him with a kitchen knife and cleaned up the mess. Or maybe the son had hired some mobster to kill Cyrus while he and his family were out of town and had a convenient alibi.
Three tables were pushed together at the back to accommodate a crowd of around ten people munching on nachos and buffalo wings. Looked like an after-work group, the men dressed in suits and loosened ties, the women in dresses or dressy pants and heels. As I brought over the tray of drinks, I caught snatches of their conversation.
“Well, whoever did it, I say the old buzzard had it coming.”
“Ah, come on, Rick. Cyrus wasn’t that bad.”
My ears pricked up. These were the people Cyrus had worked with—or, to be more exact, people who’d worked for him. Cyrus had been a big VP in the company, something he didn’t let anyone he was around ever forget. VP, but not the top dog. I bet that had eaten him. Maybe Nick was right, the murderer was someone from Chumley’s.
“Bud!” A tall red-headed guy waved me over. “Did you hear the news about old Whittaker?”
“Hey, Chip. Yes, I did.”
Chip was one of my regulars. He came in twice a week, punctual as clockwork, and always ordered the same thing: Sam Adams beer.
“Aw, rats,” Chip said. “Who beat me to the scoop?”
I set his beer down and handed out the rest of the drinks. “Police detective came around. Seems like Cyrus was last seen in this bar.”
“Really?” Chip leaned forward, his elbows propped on the table, and gave me an eager look. “Wow.” He seemed delighted by the news. “So, any inside scoop?”
“Nah.” I shook my head. “Detective Cartwright was the one asking the questions. He said Cyrus was found in the parking lot at Chumley’s, but I guess you know more than I do about that.”
“You came to the right man.” Chip straightened up with a look of self-importance. “I went in early this morning to finish a proposal before the weekend, and saw all these cop cars. When I got out, one of the groundskeepers came over, says they found this dead guy out at the edge of the lot, over by the trees. Guy’s chest was all covered in blood, so they called the cops. Then the cops noticed me and took me over to see him. I was the one that identified the body.” Chip puffed up like he’d won some kind of prize.
“We were trying to figure out who did it,” the guy named Rick said.
“The police spent enough time grilling me,” Chip grumbled. “So much for getting my proposal done. By the time they finished questioning me, I couldn’t get my head on straight. They even called my wife, checking to see if I was home last night.”
“They talk to anyone else?”
“They’ll get to the rest of us over the weekend,” a woman said. She wasn’t anyone I knew, and my brain went on pause for a second, distracted by her wavy brown hair and piercing dark blue eyes.
“I guess they thought it was suspicious, me coming in early like that.” Chip sounded less perky now. “They put me through the wringer and then took off, to talk to his family.”
“Do you suppose it was someone at Chumley’s?” the attractive brunette said. A collective shiver, partly fear, partly excitement, to judge from their expressions, rustled through her office mates.
“I think it was one of his family,” another woman whispered, an older, secretarial type. She glanced nervously over her shoulder, as if afraid the murderer was hidden somewhere in the bar, ready to jump out and kill someone else. “I saw Mr. Whittaker together with his wife at last year’s Christmas party. It was getting late, and he’d obviously had too much to drink. He saw her talking with another man, and practically ran over and grabbed her by the arms. I could tell from the wife’s expression that he was hurting her, and I wanted to do something or tell somebody. But then, they left.” She fluttered her hands helplessly.
“I heard he was on the outs with his son,” a dark-skinned man said. “If Whittaker was beating up on his wife, maybe the son found out and decided to take care of it.”
“I think you’re exaggerating, both of you.” A blond guy on the far side of the table shook his head disapprovingly. “You can’t make up a history of abuse based on something like that. Or start to accuse someone who may be perfectly innocent.”
“But I saw evidence of it, too,” the brunette said. “At that same party. I was in the restroom touching up my makeup when I saw Mrs. Whittaker come in. It was her reflection in the mirror that I saw, and I guess she thought I couldn’t see because my back was turned, but her hands were trembling. She went to the sink farthest from me and put her bag down to get out some makeup, and when she lifted her hands to her face, her sleeves pulled back, and I could see bruise marks on her arms. She was putting on eye makeup, and . . .” The brunette paused, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “I could swear she was trying to cover up a black eye.”
A hush fell. “I should have done something then,” she went on. “But . . . I told myself it was none of my business, that it wasn’t like I knew it for sure. If it was the son who did it, well, maybe he wouldn’t have if I’d just had the courage to tell someone before now.”
“Ah, Emily.” Chip put an arm around her shoulders. “It’s not your fault. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was killed by one of the other veeps, or maybe even some client he’d ticked off. Whittaker made enemies like a dog attracts fleas. Someone was going to blow their stack at him sooner or later. Just last night, he got into a shouting match right here, over at the bar . . .”
“Bud?”
I turned my head to see Mary gesturing from behind the bar and headed over with a mixture of reluctance and guilt. I’d already given her enough extra work tonight. My feeble attempts at being a sleuth would have to wait. Still, the conversation had cheered me up, if that doesn’t sound too self-centered. If Whittaker had that many enemies, then maybe poor old Jeffrey was innocent and I had nothing to reproach myself with.
As I reached the counter, the phone rang. It’s an old-fashioned landline that’s almost as old as the bar. Mary picked up, then handed me the receiver. “It’s for you, Bud.”
“Bud, this is Sam Cartwright. I just finished questioning Jeffrey Dawson and I’ve got a few more questions for you.”
“Sure, Sam. Do you mind if I call back on my cell? The landline here is right behind the bar.”
Sam gave me his number, and I hurried into the back room, where it was quiet, and punched in the numbers.
“Listen, Bud,” Sam picked up at once, “what time did Whittaker leave last night?”
“Um . . .” I thought for a moment. “Earlier than usual. Maybe around ten?”
“And what about Dawson?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to recall. When I did, my heart started doing a little dance—and it wasn’t a happy dance, either. I swallowed nervously, dragging out the words, my guts feeling like they’d gotten a big shot of acid. “Um . . . He followed Cyrus right out the door.”
“After they fought? And you didn’t think to go after him?”
“The fight didn’t last all that long,” I said defensively. “Another stool opened up and Cyrus moved away. Said he didn’t feel like sitting next to a crazy. They didn’t say anything else after that, so I figured it had blown over. And then it got real hectic just before they left. Big party came in and kept me busy.”
“But not too busy to notice when Whittaker and Dawson left.” Obviously Sam thought I should have done more. Maybe he was right.
“I was standing at the bar mixing drinks. I couldn’t help seeing ’em. To be honest, I’d forgotten all about the fight by the time they walked out.” Until I’d woken up in the wee hours and started replaying it in my head.
“Thanks, Bud. That’s all I wanted.”
“Wait, Sam—” But he’d already hung up.
It was Friday-night busy, and then some. For a couple of hours, I didn’t even have time to think about whether or not Jeffrey was involved with Whittaker’s death.
At ten o’clock, things finally slacked off. Like I said, Greenwood’s a pretty quiet town. Then the door opened and Mrs. Whittaker walked in.
“Hello, Mr. Tanner.”
“Mrs. Whittaker. I’m surprised to see you here.”
She clutched her purse handle, giving me an intent look. “If you hadn’t come round and brought your friend—”
“Nick?”
“No, Leopold. After you and Mr. Christianson left, Leopold stayed behind to talk to me. I’ve never met such a sympathetic creature in all my life. It was as if he could see into my soul. I knew I could tell him everything and that he’d understand.” She gazed over at the empty corner stool with a beatific smile. “I just wanted to come by to thank both of you.”
“Leopold?” The rabbit was not only real, but had gone with us to the Whittakers’ house? Speechless, I followed her gaze, but no one was there.
“Yes, Leopold.” Mrs. Whittaker was still staring at the empty stool. Tears came into her eyes. “Oh, Leopold, you can’t know how much you helped me today.” Then she turned back to face me, and her expression sobered. “I killed Cyrus,” she said, her voice pitched so low I could barely make out the words. “I know I should have told the police, but I was scared. Now Leopold’s made me realize that I’m better than that. I can’t let somebody else take the blame.” She reached out and touched my arm. “Thank you, again.” Mrs. Whittaker squared her shoulders and left.
I glanced over at the empty barstool and rubbed my eyes.
***
As soon as I opened the next afternoon, Jeffrey Dawson came in. This time he was stone-cold sober. I hadn’t seen him like that in months, not since he’d lost his job. He came straight to me and leaned over the bar.
“Thank God for Leopold,” he said. “Sits on that stool like a guardian spirit.” No greeting, no small talk, just that. This time I didn’t roll my eyes.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Mrs. Whittaker came into the police station late last night and had them call Detective Cartwright. Said she had important news for him about Whittaker’s death. Leopold came, too. He’d been to see Mrs. Whittaker and she told him the truth. Leopold has that effect on people.” Jeffrey lowered his gaze, looking for all the world repentant. “Anyway, Cartwright came back to the station and had a female cop examine her. There were bruises all over her body.” Jeffrey’s face darkened. “Bruises from day before yesterday and the day before that and from a week ago and so on. It was clear it wasn’t a one-time thing. The details she gave matched the police report, and she knew exactly where the body had been found. They’re going over the Whittakers’ house now; that’s where she said she killed him.”
“What are they going to do?”
“The police seem convinced it was self-defense.”
“Cyrus was a big guy,” I said. “I mean, Mrs. Whittaker is so delicate looking, it’s hard to imagine . . .”
“They were in the kitchen,” Jeffrey said. “She grabbed a knife.”
“Wow.” I thought of the sedate, classy woman who’d served tea to me and Nick yesterday after a horrific night. Alone with her guilty secret, just like she’d been alone in the midst of our small town with the secret of her husband’s abuse.
“I have to thank you, too, Bud,” Jeffrey went on. “If you and Nick hadn’t gone to her house, Leopold wouldn’t have followed you, and Mrs. Whittaker wouldn’t have come to the police. I could have been charged with murder. Five hours in the can was long enough. The idea of being in jail for life . . .” Jeffrey hunched his shoulders, then shook it off. “Anyway, I wanted you to know I’m turning over a new leaf. No more booze. I’ve got an AA meeting tonight.”
“Guess that means I won’t be seeing you any more.” I felt an unexpected pang.
“Oh, I don’t know. You brew a mean cup of coffee.”
As Jeffrey sauntered out the door, my gaze shifted to the empty stools in front of the bar.
Only they weren’t all empty.
A six-foot-tall white rabbit sat on the corner stool, dressed in an old fashioned suit with a green bow tie.
“I’d like a martini,” he said, and gave me a wink.
BIO
Lover of gargoyles and dragons, trees and cats, Nancy Adams writes mystery and fantasy for both adults and kids. Her story “The Black Cat” won the 2014 Halloween story contest in Kings River Life Magazine, and her novel CHIMERA was a finalist for the 2013 Daphne du Maurier Award in unpublished mainstream mystery/suspense. Her first published story appeared in the anthology FISH TALES (Wildside Press, 2011). Nancy is a member of SCBWI, MWA, and Sisters in Crime. Find her online at nancyadamsfiction.com and saintsandtrees.wordpress.com.
