No Sign of Murder Read online

  News station playing on bar television. Coverage on candidates and primaries. Management should consider instructing employees to tune station into ESPN so as to avoid potential disagreements among patrons.

  Alcohol and partisan politics went together about as well as gunpowder and fire. I took another sip of my drink, studying the bartender out of the corner of my eye.

  At midnight, Bartender One manufactures drink for Empty Glass. He dispenses five-count of Dewar’s and splash of soda. Drink rung up and placed on existing tab.

  At the sidebar, the point-of-sales register spat out a drink order. In no hurry, the bartender tore off the order from the printer, read it, and then started to make the drink.

  There were several point-of-sale terminals situated around the lounge where the cocktail servers could punch in orders. The system was designed to allow expediency of serving. It was a big lounge, and the setup allowed servers to stay on the floor instead of having to walk to the bar to turn in orders. POS systems are designed to prevent confusion and collusion between bartender and cocktail server. The drinks are specified on the order ticket going into the bar terminal. This prevents accidental and purposeful mistakes. By eliminating the “calling” of orders, management tries to control the flow of drinks into the lounge, as well as discourage the potential teaming up of bartender and server in their own side business.

  I looked up at the television, and pretended interest in the news story about the hotly contested presidential primaries, before gradually letting my eyes wander through the lounge. The cocktail server was chatting with the group of three businessmen. Though they were about fifteen feet away from me, I was able to tune in to some of their conversation. I also made out the writing on the server’s name tag. One girlfriend I used to take on audits said I had the eyes of an eagle and ears of a beagle. She sometimes also added that I had the soul of a frog, to which I would say that my amphibian makeover was merely awaiting the kiss of some princess to transform me to my true regal self. That same girlfriend eventually broke up with me over an argument about my business, or at least that was the final culmination of other arguments. She said that she was tired of being my shill, tired of acting out her small role. I said to her, “There are no small roles, only small actors.” I remember she gave me a last pitying glance and then took her leave from my life. So much for getting in the last word.

  Cocktail Server One is Mercedes, five foot two inches, one hundred and ten pounds, Hispanic female.

  I picked up my drink, swiveled a little on the bar stool, raised my glass, and did my sneak-peeking and sipping.

  Cocktail Server One appears friendly and interacts well with guests but needs to police her station better. Several straws and bar napkins on floor. At least half a dozen empty glasses on tables that need bussing.

  My head never moved, only the eyes over my glass. It was my alligator impression. Like the reptile, I tried to disappear save for my peering eyes atop the water. My view of the swamp suddenly got a little interesting. Two heads went on alert at the same time. The heads belonged to the two singles in the lounge, the woman in the booth and the man along the far wall. I used the bar mirror to see what had prompted their interest and saw a man entering the room. The new arrival paused to study the interior of Jimmy Sooks. The man who was seated gestured almost imperceptibly with his head in the direction of the woman in the booth. The signal was immediately understood. The newcomer made eye contact with the woman and then started walking toward her. Instead of watching what was going on, the man who had signaled made a point of looking the other way, suddenly absorbed in the river view.

  My neck felt like it was holding auditions for flamenco dancers. Something was going on, but I didn’t know what. Through the bar mirror I studied the man as he made his way through the lounge. He presented himself as looking about forty, standing six foot two, and weighing around two hundred and twenty-five pounds. The man had short, dark hair, and behind horn-rimmed glasses were dark brown eyes. In this case, looks were deceiving. The wig was the first giveaway. It was very good, but I had several that were better. I suspected that his glasses were as unnecessary as his tinted contacts. There was padding going on inside his high-collared leather coat, and lifts in his shoes. The man was smaller, lighter, and older than he actually appeared. Because my work often requires me to change my own appearance, I can spot a toupee at a hundred yards. What wasn’t obvious was why the man was altering his appearance. This was Maryland, not Hollywood.

  The man’s posture was erect, and there was a little swagger to his walk. Definitely a military background, I thought. He had an officer’s kind of bearing, wearing his authority and power like others would a vestment. Back in my spit-shine days, my cronies and I had referred to his type as Major Dick.

  I shifted in my seat, raised my water glass disguise, and took a moment to study her. White female, dark shoulder-length hair, medium build, about thirty years of age. That would have been my description in a report. In my own mind, though, I was adding a lot more adjectives, starting with the word beautiful. Though she was seated, I could see she had a long torso and would be on the tall side. Her clothes were understated, a silk blouse and cashmere sweater, but looked tailored to her frame. She had bags under her eyes and her face was pale, but instead of detracting from her looks, it added a further allure to her clear blue eyes. Judging by the twisted remains of several straws, her wait had been a nervous one. Though it was apparent she didn’t know the approaching man, it was also clear that she was expecting him.

  My ears were straining to hear their introductions. Beagle power. “Claire?” the Major asked, extending his hand. She reached for it and then moved further into the booth so he could take a seat next to her.

  At 12:03:30 Cocktail Server One approaches booth and takes drink order from couple.

  I couldn’t hear the order, and the interaction was brief. Claire and her new friend were already having an intense, quiet discussion.

  At 12:04 Cocktail Server One places drink order on point-of-sale terminal.

  I watched the printout appear at the bar printer. Bartender One reluctantly stopped talking with Earring Man and ripped off the order slip.

  At 12:05 Bartender One manufactures a Cuba Libre with a four-count pour of Bacardi Rum, a splash of lime juice, and cola dispensed from the gun. He pulls a bottle of Budweiser from the cooler and places it, along with a chilled beer glass and the Cuba Libre, on the server’s station counter. Cocktail Server One picks up order and delivers it to booth at 12:06. Customer declines offer to run a tab and shakes off server’s offer to pour the beer into the glass. He pays with a twenty.

  By the Major’s body language, it was evident he told the cocktail server to keep the change. I watched him grip the neck of his beer bottle with a napkin, then tilt it and take a conservative swallow. Some people use napkins with their drinks because they don’t like getting their hands wet. Some people also extend their pinkies when holding a glass and drinking. He didn’t strike me as the kind of person to do either of those things. It crossed my mind that he didn’t want his fingerprints left on the bottle.

  His eyes shifted from hers, and he took a moment to sweep the room with a glance. I quickly dipped my nose into my V&T, preventing him from catching me doing my mirror peeping.

  After a few seconds passed, I shifted in my seat and casually craned my neck. Major Dick’s partner appeared to be studiously ignoring the couple, but I could tell he was playing my game and using the window to watch their reflection. The man’s face was averted from me; he was wearing a black overcoat with the collar up, but I had taken notice of him earlier. He had the tight facial structure and coloring of a Willem Dafoe or Christopher Walken, and like the actors, his blue eyes seemed to have an unblinking quality. His eye sockets barely seemed to contain those eyes, much like those of a pug or Boston terrier.

  I sipped from my drink and went back to my mirror viewing. The Major was holding what appeared to be pictures, and leaned close to
Claire so she could see. One of the pictures slid out of his hand and over the edge of the table to the floor. Claire bent to retrieve the photo, putting her head under the table to look for it.

  The Major did his own leaning as well, dropping something into her drink. I was pretty sure it wasn’t an Alka-Seltzer.

  She resurfaced with the picture, put it back on the table, and then picked up her drink. I swallowed my shout of warning, and she swallowed her drink. It wasn’t a case of my being unsure about him doctoring her drink, but more that I was still trying to figure out what was going on.

  I knew the logical thing to do was call the police. Maybe these two jokers worked as a team. They could be into something ugly like date rape, which would explain Major Dick’s disguise and his putting something into her drink, but that didn’t explain the serious conversation taking place between them, nor the pictures they were scrutinizing. This wasn’t some blind date. The missing puzzle pieces kept me seated and quiet. I have always been a better observer than thinker, so that’s what I did. If I was hoping for some grand revelation to emerge from my watching, it didn’t happen. Her wooziness came on a lot faster than any of my insights. Five minutes after first sipping her adulterated drink, she began to react to its effects. Claire’s hand went up to her forehead and wiped her now-wet brow. I watched the Major reach across and lightly touch her arm with a solicitous gesture. His false benevolence decided things for me. It was time to make that call.

  Because I don’t like to be disturbed while I do my spotting, I had left my cell phone in the hotel room. My plan was to make a beeline to the room, and then return. I tossed a few dollars on the counter—come tomorrow, the bartender would likely need it—but then stayed my departure. The Major was a fast worker. Through the mirror I could see him helping Claire to her feet. “A little air,” I heard him say, “will do you some good.”

  My hesitating had put her in a bad spot. There wouldn’t be time to call the cops. Arm in arm, the two of them began to make their way out of the lounge. I raised my glass, sipping and surreptitiously watching the second man, Mr. Pug Eyes. He was clearly interested in the departing couple, but he made no move to follow them. I waited until the Major and Claire were out of Jimmy Sooks before getting up.

  The Blue Crab Inn and its more than two hundred rooms are spread out over four acres. The resort sports plenty of foliage and garden areas, secluded spots with koi pools and little waterfalls. The lush landscaping is part of the property’s ambiance. For those unfamiliar with the word, ambiance means a minimum of three hundred dollars a night.

  The Major seemed to know where he was going. South of the lounge was a garden area with large, rectangular planters set in a maze-like grid. They were navigating through those planters, and her legs were looking more and more unsteady. I might have been imagining it, but it looked as if she was trying to put on the brakes.

  “Claire!” I yelled. “Is that really you?”

  Their three-legged race came to an abrupt halt.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Critical acclaim has greeted bestselling author Alan Russell’s novels from coast to coast. Publishers Weekly calls him “one of the best writers in the mystery field today.” The New York Times says, “He has a gift for dialogue,” while the Los Angeles Times calls him a “crime fiction rara avis.” Russell’s novels have ranged from whodunits to comedic capers to suspense and have been nominated for most of the major awards in crime fiction. He has been awarded a Lefty, a Critics’ Choice Award, and the Odin Award for Lifetime Achievement from the San Diego Writers and Editors Guild. A California native, Russell is a former collegiate basketball player who nowadays plays under the rim. The proud father of three children, Russell resides with his wife in Southern California.