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“What’s wrong, you missed me?”
Yes. “Missed annoying you.” I smile over my shoulder. “Makes my days more interesting.”
His eyes slide downward to my backside, which these jeans flatter. “Your current job isn’t challenging enough?”
I let the ogle go without comment. “It’s never been about the challenge.” It was about something stress-free and new, but most of all, it was about feeling needed.
“How long do you think you’ll stay there?”
Until Ned doesn’t need me anymore. That’s the answer I gave my mom when she asked the same question. But does it mean when Murphy’s doors close for good? Or when Ned isn’t around anymore to run it? The latter puts me in a sad mood just thinking about it. “Until you open up the speakeasy down here,” I say instead. “I have the perfect flapper dress. It’s really short. Shows off my legs.” I break into a mock Charleston dance that I perfected one Halloween. I spin around. “What do you think?”
“I think you’d make a terrible employee.” But he’s grinning.
“Good thing you know how to keep me under control, huh? So, where were the murders? You ever find out?”
“Behind all that.” He juts his chin toward the wall of crates in the back.
It’s at least ten degrees colder down here than above ground. I wrap my arms around my body to keep myself warm as I move toward them. “What’s all this stuff?”
“Old junk from way back in the day.”
“You mean, you haven’t looked yet? Someone’s looked.” The lid on the nearest crate sits askew. Hooking my fingers around the edges, I lift it …
A small gray mouse scurries past my fingers.
With a shriek, I let go of the lid and hop back, crashing into Garrett’s body as a loud bang ricochets through the hollow space.
Garrett bursts into a choking laugh.
I elbow him in the stomach, earning his grunt. “You knew that would happen.”
“Here. Use this.” He reaches for an old crowbar resting nearby and pries the lid up again. Pausing to give any more critters time to run out, he pushes it off the rest of the way with his arms.
I pull out an amber-colored glass bottle, running my thumb over the ridged, dusty surface to uncover a marking: the letters S and V. It clicks. “Do you realize what this is?” I hold it up for Garrett to see. “S.V. is for Stavro.” I drag out the syllables. “This is their distillery stuff. I can’t believe it’s still here!”
Garrett lifts a few bottles. They’re identical in design. “Todd said whoever killed the brothers took the full crates of booze and ingredients, and then trashed the operation so no one could pick up the business. But they obviously didn’t destroy everything.”
“And it’s just been sitting here the whole time?” I stroll past a stack of whiskey barrels two high. “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. Like, legit history, right …” My words fade as I round the makeshift wall and come face to face with a small square table, playing cards strewn over its surface, a thick layer of dust coating everything. An ashtray sits at one corner. Four chairs surround it, one tipped over.
“Is this … is that … Oh my God.” The cards are aged, but those brown smears can’t be from time.
Garrett sidles up beside me. “Cops take the bodies and any necessary evidence. The rest, they leave behind for someone else to clean up. Dieter Senior was superstitious, so he just left things the way they were. No one ever comes down here.”
“He was superstitious, but he bought a building where four men had been murdered.”
“Guess he also knew a good deal when he saw one.”
A surreal feeling washes over me. “This is … crazy.”
“This is what you came down here to see, isn’t it?”
No, I came down here to see you, fool. Is he waiting for me to admit it out loud? “I didn’t expect an actual crime scene.”
“It was a bit jarring the first time I saw it,” he admits. “It preserved well. This basement was built properly. Good drainage outside, mortar in the stonework.”
Something I overheard John say triggers in my thoughts. “Hey, why were you talking about shoring this up when you’re demolishing it?” I duck. “Is this place about to cave in on our heads? Is this how I go?” Maybe that inspector wasn’t wrong.
“Demolishing it was the plan.” Garrett’s lips pucker. “Richard wants to rework the design to keep the old structure. I’ve been with the architects and engineers day and night for weeks. They hate my guts.”
My jaw drops. “Why the change?”
“Makes more sense, given the revisions the town engineers are requiring.”
It’s a vague answer, but it’s not what matters. “What does that mean?” It sounds like Richard has taken over the project from Garrett. That can’t be good.
