Standinginthe doorway, he could work out what had happened. She’dbeen sitting at the Formica table, sipping a cup of tea. The cup andsaucer were there, undisturbed, along with a bowl of sugar cubes. Shemust have set the cup down before she fell. When she did fall,it had been violently, knocking the chair over. She had crawled a fewfeet—not far. She might have broken a hip or leg in the fall—expected,at her age. Flecks of blood streaked the back of her blue silk dress,fanning out from a dark, dime-sized hole. When he took a deep breath,he could smell the fire of gunpowder. She’d been shot in the back, andshe had died.
Aftersuch a life, to die like this.
Sothat was that. A more-than-sixty-year acquaintance ended. Time to saygoodbye, mourn, and move on. He’d done it before—often, even. He couldbe philosophical about it. The natural course of events, and all that.But this was different, and he wouldn’t abandon her, even now when itdidn’t matter. He’d do the right thing—the human thing.
Hedrew his cell phone from his coat pocket and dialed 911.
“Hello.I needto report a murder.”
Shewalked through the doorway, and every man in the place looked at her:the painted red smile, the blue skirt swishing around perfect legs. Shedidn’t seem to notice, walked right up to the bar, and pulled herselfonto a stool.
“I’llhave a scotch, double, on ice,” she said.
Rickset aside the rag he’d been using to wipe down the surface and leanedin front of her. “You look like you’re celebrating something.”
“That’sright. You going to help me out or just keep leering?”
Smiling,hefound a tumbler and poured her a double and extra.
“Ihave to ask,”Rick said, returning to the bar in front of her, enjoyingthe way every other man in Murray’s looked at him with envy. “What’sthe celebration?”
“Youdo have to ask, don’t you? I’m just not sure I should tell you.”
“It’snot often I see a lady come in here all alone in a mood to celebrate.”
Murray’swas a working-class place, a dive by the standards of East Colfax; theneighborhood was going downhill as businesses and residents fleddowntown, leaving behind everyone who didn’t have anyplace to go. Rickhad seen this sort of thing happen enough; he recognized the signs.Murray wasn’t losing money, but he didn’t have anything extra to putinto the place. The varnish on the hardwood floor was scuffed off,the furniture was a decade old. Cheap beer and liquor were the norm,and he still had war bond posters up a year and a half after V-J Day.Or maybe he liked the Betty Grable pinups he’d stuck on top of some ofthem too much to take any of it down.
Blushing,the woman ducked her gaze, which told him something about her. Theshrug she gave him was a lot shyer than the brash way she’d walked inhere.
“Igot a job,” she said.
“Congratulations.”
“You’renot going to tell me that a nice girl like me should find herself agood man, get married, and settle down and make my mother proud?”
“Nope.”
“Good.”She smiled and bit her lip.
Anewcomer in a clean suit came up to the bar, set down his hat, andtossed a couple of bills on the polished wood. Rick nodded at the womanand went to take the order. Business was steady after that, and Rickserved second and third rounds to men who’d come in after work andstuck around. New patrons arrived for after-dinner nightcaps. Rickworked through it all, drawing beers and pouring liquor, smilingpolitely when the older men called him “son” and “kid.”
Hedidn’t need the job. He just liked being around people now and then.He’d worked at bars before—bars, saloons, taverns—here and there, foralmost two hundred years.
Heexpected the woman to finish quickly and march right out again, but shesipped the drink as if savoring the moment, wanting to spend time withthe crowd. Avoiding solitude. Rick understood.
Whena thin, flushed man who’d had maybe one drink too many sidled up to thebar and crept toward her like a cat on the prowl, Rick wasn’tsurprised. He waited, watching for her signals. She might have beenhere to celebrate, but she might have been looking for more, and hewouldn’t interfere. But the man spoke—asking to buy her anotherdrink—and the woman shook her head. When he pleaded, she tilted herbody, turning her back to him. Then he put a hand on her shoulder andanother under the bar, on her leg. She shoved.
Rickstood before them both. They hesitated midaction, blinking back at him.
“Sir,you really need to be going, don’t you?” Rick said.
“Thisisn’t any ofyour business,” the drunk said.
“Ifthe lady wants to be left alone, you should leave her alone.” He caughtthe man’s gaze and twisted, just a bit. Put the warning in his voice,used a certain subtle tone, so that there was power in the words. Ifthe man’s gaze clouded over, most onlookers would attribute it to theliquor.
Theman pointed and opened his mouth as if to speak, but Rick put a littlemore focus in his gaze and the drunk blinked, confused.
“Goon, now,” Rick said.
Theman nodded weakly, crushed his hat on his head, and stumbled to thedoor.
Thewoman watched him go, then turned back to Rick, her smile wondering.“That was amazing. How’d you do that?”
“Youwork behind the bar long enough, you develop a way with people.”
“You’vebeen bartending a long time, then.”
Rick just smiled.
“Thanksfor looking out for me,” she said.
“Nota problem.”
“Ireally didn’t come here looking for a date. I really did just want thedrink.”
“Iknow.”
“ButI wouldn’t say no. To a date. Just dinner or a picture or something.If the right guy asked.”
So,Rick asked. Her name was Helen.
Rickanswered the responding officer’s questions, then sat in the armchairin the living room to wait for the detective to arrive. It took aboutforty-five minutes. In the meantime, officers and investigators passedin and out of the house, which seemed less and less Helen’s by themoment.
Whenthe detective walked in, he stood to greet her. The woman was averageheight and build, and busy, always looking, taking in the scene. Herdark hair was tied in a short ponytail; she wore a dark suit and whiteshirt, nondescript. She
