Murder on the Rocks by Allyson K. Abbott Page A

wide-eyed, waiting for me to fill them in.
    “It was Ginny Rifkin,” I told them. Debra had been working at the bar for three years
     and knew who Ginny was, but Missy didn’t, even though she had seen and waited on her
     a few times.
    Debra muttered a half-whispered “Oh, no, poor Ginny.”
    Missy looked from me to Debra and back at me again. “Who is this Ginny person? Do
     I know her?”
    Gary said, “She’s a local Realtor who was dating Mack’s father when he died. Short
     lady, in her fifties, blond bob?”
    “Oh, okay,” Missy said, nodding. “She used to come in here and talk to you about selling
     the place, right?”
    I nodded, surprised Missy knew about Ginny’s efforts.
    “She was a Brandy Alexandra,” Missy said.
    I leaned toward Duncan and said, “That’s a Brandy Alexander blended with ice cream
     instead of shaken with cream. You use an ounce of brandy, an ounce of crème de cacao,
     a scoop of vanilla ice cream and only half the usual ice. Top it off with a sprinkle
     of nutmeg.”
    Duncan looked both confused and annoyed, not surprising since I don’t think he’d had
     time to learn what a Brandy Alexander was, or even a plain Alexander for that matter.
     Then I realized that Debra and Missy were both staring at him looking equally confused.
    “Oh, sorry,” I said. “Where are my manners? I forgot the introductions.”
    I introduced Debra and Missy to Duncan, using the same story I’d used with everyone
     else. While Missy gave Duncan a slow and brazen head-to-toe assessment, Debra barely
     gave him a second look. She was more interested in the murder. “Poor, poor Ginny,”
     she said. “How was she killed? And do they know who did it?”
    “Well, the who part remains to be determined,” I said. “As to how . . .” I stopped,
     remembering Duncan’s instructions about not revealing the details. “You’d have to
     ask the cops. No one is telling me a thing.”
    Gary snorted. “Yeah, like the cops would ever tell anyone anything,” he said.
    Jenny the fingerprint tech joined us then, and when she hit Gary up for his fingerprints
     I dragged Duncan away before Gary had a chance to go off again.
    I led Duncan into the kitchen and for the next twenty minutes Helmut showed him the
     basics of our food prep, grunting out instructions and talking as little as possible.
     Duncan tried to engage him in a discussion about the murder, but Helmut didn’t want
     to play. He ignored Duncan’s questions and went back to the food prep every time Duncan
     tried to change the subject.
    When we were done with the food prep training, I took Duncan into my office and shut
     the door so I could fill him in on what I knew about Missy, Debra, Helmut, and Gary.
     But before I could say a word, Duncan took a phone call. I watched him with curiosity,
     hoping to be able to glean what the subject of the call might be, but apparently the
     person on the other end was doing all the talking. All Duncan said was “Interesting,”
     and just before he hung up, “Thanks.”
    When he disconnected the call he turned to me and said, “I’ve had some guys working
     on that list of employees and customers you gave me earlier.”
    I’m not sure if it was his expression or the tone of his voice, but something triggered
     an uncomfortable buzzing sensation up and down my spine. “Yes?” I said, swallowing
     hard, fairly certain I wasn’t going to like what I heard next.
    “Why didn’t you tell me Gary has a criminal record?”

Chapter 8
    “W hat are you talking about?” I said, staring at Duncan. I had a sinking feeling in
     my gut as I recalled Gary’s reaction to the idea of being fingerprinted. If what Duncan
     said was true, I now understood why Gary had acted that way. Yet I had a hard time
     believing my father would have hired a criminal to work the bar. I knew he thoroughly
     vetted all of his potential hires, and he was always very safety and security conscious.
    Duncan dished the facts.