Page 66 of Death on Gallows Path

He faced us, his back to the far corner, which gave him a full view of the bar, a cross-section of the hallway where customers arrived and departed, slices of the front dining area, and a second one behind it.

Richard Haines Chafford was a descendant of the Haines who built the tavern and subsequent generations who preserved it long enough to earn its historic designation, as supported by plaques on the exterior and interior walls.

More important to our purposes, Rich knew his clientele well and appreciated the results of an earlier investigation by Clara and me.

“Hey, Clara, Sheila. Thought I saw you two leave. You know we’re closed . . .”

“As if we could eat another bite after brunch,” Clara said. He smiled. It faded as she added, “We’re hoping to talk to you a little.”

Still, he opened a hand in invitation to pull up stools to his tall table.

I was happy to let Clara carry the verbal load, with her strong hometown ties, while I’m a raw newcomer.

“Rich, I don’t suppose you’d be surprised to hear we’re following up on the death of Damon Swindell. Don’t know if you’re aware we have a connection through our dogs?”

That rather inflated the situation, but if it helped . . .

“Heard from Leo you’re taking the same class with Damon and his wife, along with Bryon and Zoley Georger.”

His words deflated our connection to its proper proportions, but he didn’t appear to hold it against us, based on what he said next.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

He snort-laughed at Clara’s answer.

“They come in here regularly?” she followed up.

“Not a regular schedule, but frequently.”

“What’re they like when they come in?”

“Not the favorite customers we’ve got. When they come in with the Georgers, they always want a particular table, expect it. We’ve told them over and over we don’t reserve specific tables. Makes no difference. Heck, they expect it when they haven’t bothered with a reservation.”

“Which table?” I asked.

“Back left corner of the back parlor.”

It was a table for four, somewhat smaller than others because the corner space was limited by a built-in cabinet — historic, of course. The table sat at an angle to accommodate the cabinet. That provided a modicum of additional privacy.

Clara nodded, as if she’d followed the same train of thought and drew a conclusion she now spoke. “Less likely to be overheard.”

He snorted. “Table most likely to be spotted when anyone walks in the door of the front parlor. Straight shot visually. Hard to miss. As for being overheard, most of the time they talk loud enough that others can’t help but hear them. We’ve had a few comments.”

“Guests or staff?” I asked.

“Both.”

“What do they talk about?” Clara asked.

“Our staff doesn’t eavesdrop—”

“Of course not, but as you say, they can’t help but hear.”

“Only pieces. Our people are in and out, not like customers at nearby tables.”

“Pieces could help us.” Clara’s humbleness combined with a limpid gaze.