Murder on the Rocks by Allyson K. Abbott

alley was
     off limits. He looked nervous, eyed Duncan suspiciously, and after the introductions
     and instructions were done he pulled me aside so that we were standing next to the
     door. “It’s not the best time to be bringing in someone new, what with Ginny’s death
     and all.”
    “Maybe not,” I agreed. “But I’m doing a friend a favor.”
    Gary shot a troubled look toward Duncan. “And just how is it you know this friend?”
    “His father knew my father,” I said, relaying the story Duncan and I had worked out
     earlier. I hoped Gary wouldn’t inquire any deeper and he didn’t. But then I told him
     about Jenny and the fingerprinting, and he got angry.
    “I’m not doing that,” he said with vehemence. “It’s a violation of my rights.”
    “I know it’s a pain,” I countered in the softest voice I could muster. “But they need
     our prints to rule us out.”
    “Or pin something on us that we didn’t do,” Gary grumbled. “And since I live alone,
     I don’t have an alibi for last night. That’s the kind of stuff these cops love.”
    “Lots of people won’t have alibis,” I told him. “Hell, I don’t have one.” Gary still
     looked ticked so I tried a different tack. “Look, I told the cops all of my employees
     would cooperate with their investigation. It was a condition for them letting me open
     the bar tonight. So please do it, Gary. I need the money.”
    Gary scowled and started to say something more, but a knock on the front door interrupted
     him. It was my two cocktail waitresses Debra Landers and Missy Channing. During the
     week I could usually get by with just one waitress, a bartender, a part-time cook,
     and myself. But on the weekends things got busy enough that I needed to ramp up the
     help. Gary unlocked the door to let them in, and Duncan, apparently unwilling to let
     us have any more time out of his earshot, joined us.
    Debra was a forty-something married mom of two teenaged boys. She typically worked
     from eleven to five Wednesday and Thursday and eleven to eleven on Fridays and Saturdays.
     Her husband made a decent living as a car salesman but there was little left over
     at the end of the month, so Debra’s work money went toward the occasional extras and
     a savings account earmarked for her boys’ college tuition. My customers loved her,
     not only because she had a fun and charming personality, but because she was a good
     listener. She had a knack for helping people sort out their problems, a trait that
     earned her the nickname Ann because of her last name. She also loved to bake and more
     often than not she arrived at work with samplings of her latest efforts, which she
     then generously shared among her lunchtime customers. Tonight she had a tray full
     of cupcakes that the dinner crowd would get instead.
    Missy, a twenty-two-year-old single mom who lived with her parents, was my full-time
     night waitress, working from five to closing Wednesday through Sunday. She was also
     the only employee I hired myself and didn’t inherit from Dad. An attractive blonde
     with a bubbly personality and a nice figure, she was the flip side of Billy’s coin
     when it came to bringing in customers; I’d wager half my male customers had a crush
     on her. But on the downside, she wasn’t very bright. She dropped out of high school
     her sophomore year because she got pregnant, and two kids later she was still trying
     to get her GED. But she had a savantlike ability to remember faces and drinks. If
     she waited on you once, the next time she saw you she wouldn’t remember your name
     or when she last saw you, even if it was just the night before. Nor could she total
     up your drink tab or calculate a tip. But she’d remember what drink you ordered.
    “Oh my G-d!” Missy blurted as soon as she was let in. “I can’t believe you found a
     dead body in the alley! I mean is that freakish or what? Was it anybody we know?”
     She and Debra both stood there