A Biscuit, a Casket by Liz Mugavero Page B

conversation with him. Basically
     he didn’t see Hal at all yesterday, because his shift starts in the afternoon. But
     he didn’t see Em either. So you see what I mean. It’s not going well.” She sat on
     the stool, a movement that, to Stan, signified defeat.
    Jake sensed it, too. He paused from arranging his garnish trays and grabbed a beer
     mug, filled it with ice and water, and placed it in front of his sister. “Did you
     eat?”
    She shook her head.
    “Veggie wrap?”
    A nod.
    “Chips?”
    She hesitated. Jake took that for a yes. “Be right back.” He left the bar and disappeared
     around the same corner Brenna had a few minutes earlier.
    Stan was left with Pasquale. Well, this is awesome. She picked up her water glass and swirled the remaining ice around for something
     to do. Pasquale hadn’t touched her water. Instead, she observed her surroundings as
     one would a sleazy alley they’d been forced to walk down in the dark. Either she wasn’t
     a drinker and thought bars were a waste of time, or she had a particular aversion
     to her brother’s place. Stan wanted to ask.
    “Do you have any thoughts on who killed him? Aside from Emmalee?” she asked instead.
    Pasquale frowned. “I can’t discuss the case.”
    “You were just discussing it,” Stan pointed out.
    Before Pasquale could respond, Jake came out of the kitchen. “Order’s in. You really
     should eat more than once a week, you know,” he told his sister.
    She ignored him. “I’m going to talk to the waitresses now.”
    “Fine. Let me go tell them first.” He waited until the two girls had left their customers’
     tables, then beckoned them over. “Caroline, Maddy. Can I borrow you two for a minute?”
    The girls approached, curiosity apparent on each face. They were both twentysomethings,
     but on the young end of twenty. “What’s up, boss?” the blonde one with the long ponytail
     asked.
    “This is my sister—Trooper Pasquale. She’s a state police officer. She needs to ask
     you two a question about a customer. That okay?”
    “Sure,” the blonde said. “I’m Caroline.” She turned to look at her coworker, a curvy
     brunette with a tattoo covering her entire forearm.
    The girl hung back, apparently wary of this whole exercise. “I’m Maddy.”
    “What’s going on? Is someone in trouble?” Caroline asked.
    “Thanks for taking the time, ladies. I just need you to look at a photo.” All business
     again, Pasquale pulled a photo out of her pocket and showed them. “Was this man in
     here yesterday at all?”
    Caroline and Maddy bent their heads together over the photo. Neither of the girls
     looked disturbed. They must not read the Frog Ledge Holler , Stan figured.
    Maddy looked up first, shook her head. “I didn’t see him.”
    Caroline lingered over the photo a bit longer. “That’s Hal, right? Hoffman?” At Pasquale’s
     nod, she continued. “Sure, he’s a regular. Decent tipper, too. He doesn’t always sit
     at the tables. Mostly the bar. But he wasn’t in here yesterday. At least not while
     I was here, and I came in at two. I worked an extra shift yesterday.” She tapped her
     index finger thoughtfully against her lips. “But you know, I do remember . . .” She
     turned to Maddy. “You know him, too, Maddy. He’s usually in here with a group of guys,
     kinda look like the Mafia? But sometimes with his wife. Wasn’t she in here yesterday
     afternoon looking for him?”
    Maddy looked uncomfortable. She shrugged. “I really don’t remember. And I think my
     table’s getting ready to leave. Is it okay . . . ?” She motioned over her shoulder
     with her thumb.
    “Go ahead,” Pasquale said, reaching into her pocket and producing a card, which she
     handed to Maddy. “If you remember anything else, please call me. My brother knows
     how to get in touch.”
    Maddy nodded and hurried back to her customers. Pasquale watched her go for a minute,
     then turned back to Caroline, still deep in