“Anna, oh my. We have a situation,” Thelma said, her voice shrill.
I set down my pen and stood, already heading for my boots. “Define situation.”
“Bernie has been drinking all day down at Dunphey’s bar and was just yelling about taking down the bastard who’d killed Lawrence. Said it was his son, Hoyt, and he’s going to take matters into his own hands.” Thelma sniffed. “The bartender called me, and then Bernie came on the line. I think he might do it, even though he’s toasted.”
I shrugged into my jacket, grabbed my purse, and scrambled for my keys in the bowl by the door. The bag hung heavily on my arm with the gun inside it. It was nearly ten at night, but I’d be careful. “I’m on my way.”
“We’d go get him, but Georgiana and I might’ve gotten into the brownies after dinner. Cataracts, you know.”
I hustled through my small laundry room to the garage door and my stomach rolled over. I’d accidentally ingested their marijuana brownies before and had ended up killing a pot of hydrangeas as the chocolate had come back up. The bad reaction had also included paranoid delusions, so I hadn’t gone near their baked goods since. “That’s okay. I’ll pick him up. Is he armed?”
She was silent for a second. “He didn’t say anything, but most of us are armed, sweetie. You drive very carefully and don’t hurry. I got him to wait for you.”
I hit the garage door button and jumped into my SUV, missing my summer car, which was a Fiat. The older beauty wasn’t good on the snow, but she could drive fast. “How did you do that?” I backed out into the rapidly falling snow.
“I promised him a threesome with Georgiana and me.”
I hit the brakes and skidded backward down my driveway. “What?”
She sighed. “We’re not going to really do it. I mean,I’mtoo much for a man his age—the two of us would give him a coronary. But I had to say something.”
I shook my head like a dog squirted in the nose with water and then slowly released the brakes. “Who’s bartending?”
“I didn’t ask, but he had a real nice voice. Deep and dark.” She cleared her throat. “Maybe you should pick me up on the way.”
Not in a million years. “I should get right there,” I said instead, winding around a chunk of thick ice in the middle of the quiet country road. “I’ll call you when I have him.”
“Bring him here. He shouldn’t be alone right now,” she said.
I winced. The woman was probably correct, but I wasn’t sure that was a good idea. On many levels. “I’ll call you.” I dropped the phone into my purse and used both hands on the wheel. The wind whipped more flakes across the window and I tensed my shoulders, leaning forward to see through the darkness
Dunphey’s bar was for drinkers. Not millennials, not young people looking to hook up, but for drinkers. The bar took up the corner of Oakwood and Acorn in downtown Timber City. It was made of worn clapboard wood siding, the chairs and stools were 70’s-style leather, and the smell of smoke and burned pizza hung heavily in the air. The bar had sat there as a place to drown sorrows and destroy livers for at least ninety years. The town had basically grown up around Dunphey’s through the decades.
I parked on the curb and kicked snow out of my way to shove open the heavy maple door. Once inside, I paused, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. The tavern was shaped in a square with the bar, stools, and booze to the right, tables and chairs to the left, and a vacant dance floor straight ahead where nobody had ever danced. More tables had encroached across the linoleum dance floor to the far stage holding several ready-to-use wooden kegs, so now there was nowhere to dance anyway.
Muted country music mixed with rock hinted in the far background.
A familiar face behind the bar caught my attention and I hustled over, shimmying my hips between two maroon-colored leather bar stools. Both unused. Most of the patrons either sat at the far ends of the bar or at tables against the walls. “Rory,” I said, half-leaning over to hug my cousin. “Didn’t know you were home.”
Rory hugged me back, one-armed, muscles strong against my shoulders. Then he returned to drying a shot glass with a torn towel that had seen better days. “Don’t tell me you’re here for the drunk guy.”
Not a great description, considering it fit everyone in there except for the two of us. I stood back and studied my cousin. He was the fifth of six brothers, and nobody quite knew what he did for a living. His hair was a darker brown, his features Italian, and his eyes the blue of a stormy lake. He traveled a lot for his job. When he was home he could be found helping with search and rescue, fighting fires, or apparently tending bar. “What are you doing here?”
“Joe Dunphey’s wife went into labor and I said I’d cover the bar,” Rory said easily, moving on to the next glass.
Well, sure. That pretty much summed up normality for Rory. “How’s life in the merchant marines?” I asked, playing our usual game.
He grinned, revealing the Albertini charm. All of the men in our family had it. “Funny. I’m a traveling salesman selling pottery. The good kind that won’t crack if you put hot tea in it. I should sell you some.”
Right. Sure, he was. I looked for Bernie and saw him alone in a far corner, slouched against the wall, his eyes closed. “Is he wearing his Santa outfit?” I gasped.
Rory chuckled. “Only the coat over jeans. I think the hat is shoved in his back pocket.”
Unbelievable. Either way, he wasn’t going anywhere at the moment, and I was fine letting him sleep it off. I perched on a stool and flopped my purse on the bar with a loud clunk.
Rory’s eyebrow rose. “What are you packing?”
“My LadySmith,” I said, looking at the alcohol bottles behind him on wooden shelves. “Got any wine?”
