Murder on the Rocks by Allyson K. Abbott Page B

“Gary Gunderson did time ten years ago for a drug-related
     crime that included an assault. He was only out for a year before he was arrested
     for his involvement in the armed robbery of a convenience store.”
    “I don’t believe you.”
    Duncan’s expression softened. “You don’t want to believe me, but it doesn’t change
     the facts. You didn’t know?”
    I leaned back against my desk and saw floating shards of broken glass drifting along
     the periphery of my vision. Was it the feel of the hard edge of the desk through my
     pants that triggered the visual manifestation? Or the shock of betrayal?
    “There must be a mistake,” I said. “Gary has never given me any reason to doubt him.”
    “That may be, but it doesn’t change the facts. When did you say your father hired
     him?”
    “Right before Christmas last year, a few weeks before he was shot.”
    “That’s right around the time Gary was paroled. Did he have an alibi for your father’s
     murder?”
    “He said he was home sick with the flu. I already told you that.”
    “That’s what he told you. But there’s no way to verify it, is there?”
    “No,” I said, my shoulders sagging. Then I shook my head. “But I still can’t believe
     Gary had anything to do with my father’s murder. He was horrified by what happened,
     said he felt guilty that he hadn’t been here, and that if he had, maybe he could have
     prevented the whole thing.”
    “Of course he’d say something like that.”
    The tone in his voice made me taste chocolate but it was slightly bitter. I fought
     down an urge to go out front and ask Gary about it right away. But I hesitated, in
     part because I needed time to digest the information, and also because I needed Gary
     at his post for the night. I was in denial and knew it on some subconscious level.
     But I chose to deny my denial.
    Duncan didn’t make it easy for me. “I’m betting he doesn’t have an alibi for last
     night, either,” he said.
    My whole body sagged. “He doesn’t. I know because he told me so just a bit ago.” I
     glanced at my watch, saw that it was almost five o’clock, and gave Duncan an imploring
     look. “I really need to get the place open and I need Gary here for the night. Can
     you talk to him about all of this later, after closing?” I mentally crossed my fingers,
     hoping Duncan would be willing to postpone any serious interrogation.
    “We’ll play it by ear for now,” he said, “but no promises. My guys are going to keep
     digging and if they come up with any concrete proof that Gary is involved, we will
     arrest him.”
    “Fair enough,” I said, like I had any say in the matter. “Shall we get to it then?”
    We headed back out to the main bar area and did a few last-minute checks before unlocking
     the front door. My place isn’t huge; there’s seating for twenty at the half-moon-shaped
     bar, and the tables will comfortably seat sixty more. Most of the seating is in the
     main part of the bar, though there are a couple of small tables in a side room where
     I have a pool table and a dartboard. Along a hallway in the back by the kitchen entrance
     is my office, its door easily visible to the main bar area and the bar itself, and
     the rest rooms. At the end of the hallway are three more doors, one to the basement,
     one to my apartment, and one that opens onto the alley out back. All of these doors
     remain locked, though ever since smoking had to be banned inside the bar, customers
     have taken to smoking in the alley and occasionally propping the door open so they
     can get back inside.
    The bar arrangement and layout easily accommodates my daytime crowd most days, which
     is busy at lunch but typically slow in the afternoon. Then it picks up again around
     dinnertime and depending on the day of the week, the place may fill up by eight at
     night, with some folks hovering to wait for a table to open up. Often times there
     are a half dozen customers standing around the