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“Hey,” I replied. He had dark hair and dark eyes, and was cute in a friendly, boyish kind of way. Not really my type, which was just as well. I didn’t think a workplace flirtation would be a very good idea, not when I was trying to acquit myself well and prove to everyone that Hazel hadn’t made a mistake in leaving the bar to me.

“I was just giving Lorelei the nickel tour,” Roz said. “I’m sure she’ll catch on quickly.”

“Nothing to it,” Marco said easily. “All the tables already have menus on them, so you just have to keep an eye on the crowd to see who’s ready to order and who looks like they need a refill.”

“We have a mix of locals and tourists,” Roz added. “And quite a few regulars. They won’t expect you to know them right off the bat, of course, but it’ll help if you get to know them as quickly as possible.”

Which might be a daunting task, depending on how many “regulars” we were talking about. Then again, I’d always been good with faces. It shouldn’t take me too long to pick things up.

By that point, it was nearly noon, so Marco went over and propped the door open and then set a sandwich board out front advertising that day’s specials.

“Happy Hour is four to six,” Roz told me. “That’s usually when things pick up, but we can have a bit of a lunch rush.”

As if to prove her point, a group of four women came in, probably tourists, since she greeted them politely but didn’t seem to call any of them out by name. After that was an older couple who obviously were regulars, Marjorie and Joe, and Roz introduced me to them and then let me take their order.

“So, you’re Hazel’s great-niece,” Joe said. If he was at all put off by the head-to-toe black or the red lipstick and the cat-eye liner, he didn’t give any indication of it, but simply smiled.

“I am,” I replied. “I know I have some pretty big shoes to fill.”

“Oh, you’ll do fine,” Marjorie assured me. “We’re a friendly lot around here.”

That seemed to be the case, because everyone who came in after that was all smiles, happy to be grabbing a glass of wine or beer on their lunch break before they headed back out. The tourists appeared to be in a good mood, too, but that was probably because most of them seemed to be doing a bar crawl along Whiskey Row.

By two o’clock, though, things had quieted down enough that Roz told me to take a lunch break. “It won’t pick up again until four,” she said. “So go ahead and grab something.”

I didn’t really know what was available downtown, but I headed out anyway. A quick consult with my phone told me there were plenty of places to choose from, depending on what I felt like eating.

A place called Farm Provisions sounded good, partly because I was more in the mood for a sandwich than a slice of pizza or anything Mexican, and also because it was on Montezuma Street, and therefore my chances of getting lost were pretty slim.

I crossed Gurley Street and kept going, taking note of the various shops and restaurants. Some places obviously catered to tourists, and other businesses — lawyers’ firms and construction companies — were more for the locals.

Right after a hiking store — I doubted I’d need to buy anything there, since I wasn’t exactly an outdoor kind of girl — was a bookshop called Marsh & Hollow. The name was interesting enough that I paused and peered inside. It was dark and seemed to be empty, but maybe the owner and the customers were perusing the stacks toward the back of the store. The books in the front window were intriguing, though, metaphysical and occult and vintage volumes all displayed on an antique shelf with a surprisingly exuberant Swiss cheese vine.

I made a note to drop in at some point. Maybe they’d have a book that talked about people who could see ghosts, even though Hazel had insisted it was a talent confined to the Cosgrove bloodline and no other.

My destination was farther down the block. I got a blackened chicken sandwich to go, although I didn’t immediately head back to Copper State Cellars. Instead, I crossed the street and found an empty bench at Courthouse Plaza, which was still green and friendly even though the grass back at the house was starting to succumb to the chilly overnight temperatures.

Tourists were taking photos, people were walking their dogs — I thought of Chauncey at home, and then reassured myself he wasn’t alone because Hazel was there — and the scene was so peaceful that I found myself releasing a breath and simply relaxing for what felt like the first time in days.

Or weeks, or even a year. I realized then that I’d carried a knot of tension somewhere in my neck and back ever since the horrible day I’d gotten the call from the Lake Havasu police department telling me that my father’s Cessna had plunged into the lake — narrowly missing a houseboat — and that there hadn’t been any survivors.

Now, though, in a place I’d never expected to call home, I thought I was finally starting to let go.

The sandwich was good. I ate all of it and finished the iced tea I’d gotten as well, then took my trash over to a nearby bin and disposed of it.

After that, I headed back to the bar.

It was dead quiet, without a single patron. Marco was behind the bar, polishing glasses, and when I inquired about Roz, he said she was in the office, catching up on paperwork.

“Mind if I take my break now?” he asked. “We’ve got about an hour before the Happy Hour crowds show up.”

“Sure, go ahead,” I told him at once. It felt a little weird for him to be asking my permission, but technically, I supposed I was his boss.

“Thanks,” he replied, and set down his rag before heading out the back door.

Quiet descended. Music played in the background, but it was soft and unassuming, some kind of acoustic guitar without vocals that seemed calculated to be utterly inoffensive.

I went behind the bar and picked up the rag Marco had discarded, then bent down to put it in the bin we used for dirty towels and such. There was a stackable washer and dryer in the back, but Roz had told me Mason would take care of the next load when she came in tomorrow afternoon.