Santa's Subpoena Read online

  That would track with what I’d heard about his gambling addiction.

  “It was too bad,” Donna continued. “His girlfriend loved the place and was already planning where to put the water skis on the wall for decorations.”

  I paused in reaching for a set of books that had fur coming out of puppy ears. “Girlfriend?”

  Donna frowned. “Yeah. Her name was, what was it? Something cute. Um, Lucy. Yeah, that’s it. Lucy Gardiner.”

  I had never heard of her, but Timber City was growing, so that wasn’t unusual these days. “Do you remember anything about her?” Was she still dating Hoyt? I needed to find her.

  Donna reached for sparkly white paper. “Let’s see. What did she say?” She cut expertly along the line on the back side. “I think she said something about saving for more decorations and working at Buck’s Candy Store and Ice Creamery over on Oakwood? The only reason I remember that is because she brought me some butterscotch candies, and I thought that was sweet.”

  My pulse jumped. All right. More leads to follow. The girlfriend would know how deep Hoyt was with gambling debts as well as the status of his relationship with his father.

  It made me sick to think that a son would kill his own dad, but if Hoyt had been desperate and if he’d known that Lawrence was going to leave the bulk of his estate to Florence, who knew?

  My mom glanced at her watch. “Oh. I have to go. I’m meeting your father for dinner over the hill.”

  I loved that they still had date night. My dad was a badass miner and a tough guy, but he was putty in my mom’s hands. “Do you have time to give me a ride home first?” I asked.

  “Of course.” She reached for her jacket. “We can brainstorm a present for Aiden on the way. How about an engagement ring? Men wear those, right?”

  Donna shot me a sympathetic look but didn’t put herself in the line of fire.

  I wished I’d just asked to borrow a car. “No, mom. They don’t.”

  “Well,” she said cheerfully, sliding her arm through mine. “We could always change that. Right?”

  Chapter 13

  I stared into my freezer, not feeling all that inspired. Cooking relaxed me, so I often had dinners prepped far in advance, but lasagna or Irish stew just weren’t doing it for me, even though it was well past dinnertime. So I shut the dinged white metallic door and returned to my kitchen table, where I’d spread out my notes on Bernie’s case. My phone buzzed, and I lifted it absently to my ear. “Anna Albertini.”

  “Anna, oh my. We have a situation,” Thelma said, her voice shrill.

  I set down my pen and stood, already heading for my boots. “Define situation.”

  “Bernie has been drinking all day down at Dunphey’s bar and was just yelling about taking down the bastard who’d killed Lawrence. Said it was his son, Hoyt, and he’s going to take matters into his own hands.” Thelma sniffed. “The bartender called me, and then Bernie came on the line. I think he might do it, even though he’s toasted.”

  I shrugged into my jacket, grabbed my purse, and scrambled for my keys in the bowl by the door. The bag hung heavily on my arm with the gun inside it. It was nearly ten at night, but I’d be careful. “I’m on my way.”

  “We’d go get him, but Georgiana and I might’ve gotten into the brownies after dinner. Cataracts, you know.”

  I hustled through my small laundry room to the garage door and my stomach rolled over. I’d accidentally ingested their marijuana brownies before and had ended up killing a pot of hydrangeas as the chocolate had come back up. The bad reaction had also included paranoid delusions, so I hadn’t gone near their baked goods since. “That’s okay. I’ll pick him up. Is he armed?”

  She was silent for a second. “He didn’t say anything, but most of us are armed, sweetie. You drive very carefully and don’t hurry. I got him to wait for you.”

  I hit the garage door button and jumped into my SUV, missing my summer car, which was a Fiat. The older beauty wasn’t good on the snow, but she could drive fast. “How did you do that?” I backed out into the rapidly falling snow.

  “I promised him a threesome with Georgiana and me.”

  I hit the brakes and skidded backward down my driveway. “What?”

  She sighed. “We’re not going to really do it. I mean, I’m too much for a man his age—the two of us would give him a coronary. But I had to say something.”

  I shook my head like a dog squirted in the nose with water and then slowly released the brakes. “Who’s bartending?”

  “I didn’t ask, but he had a real nice voice. Deep and dark.” She cleared her throat. “Maybe you should pick me up on the way.”

  Not in a million years. “I should get right there,” I said instead, winding around a chunk of thick ice in the middle of the quiet country road. “I’ll call you when I have him.”

  “Bring him here. He shouldn’t be alone right now,” she said.

  I winced. The woman was probably correct, but I wasn’t sure that was a good idea. On many levels. “I’ll call you.” I dropped the phone into my purse and used both hands on the wheel. The wind whipped more flakes across the window and I tensed my shoulders, leaning forward to see through the darkness

  Dunphey’s bar was for drinkers. Not millennials, not young people looking to hook up, but for drinkers. The bar took up the corner of Oakwood and Acorn in downtown Timber City. It was made of worn clapboard wood siding, the chairs and stools were 70’s-style leather, and the smell of smoke and burned pizza hung heavily in the air. The bar had sat there as a place to drown sorrows and destroy livers for at least ninety years. The town had basically grown up around Dunphey’s through the decades.

  I parked on the curb and kicked snow out of my way to shove open the heavy maple door. Once inside, I paused, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. The tavern was shaped in a square with the bar, stools, and booze to the right, tables and chairs to the left, and a vacant dance floor straight ahead where nobody had ever danced. More tables had encroached across the linoleum dance floor to the far stage holding several ready-to-use wooden kegs, so now there was nowhere to dance anyway.

  Muted country music mixed with rock hinted in the far background.

  A familiar face behind the bar caught my attention and I hustled over, shimmying my hips between two maroon-colored leather bar stools. Both unused. Most of the patrons either sat at the far ends of the bar or at tables against the walls. “Rory,” I said, half-leaning over to hug my cousin. “Didn’t know you were home.”

  Rory hugged me back, one-armed, muscles strong against my shoulders. Then he returned to drying a shot glass with a torn towel that had seen better days. “Don’t tell me you’re here for the drunk guy.”

  Not a great description, considering it fit everyone in there except for the two of us. I stood back and studied my cousin. He was the fifth of six brothers, and nobody quite knew what he did for a living. His hair was a darker brown, his features Italian, and his eyes the blue of a stormy lake. He traveled a lot for his job. When he was home he could be found helping with search and rescue, fighting fires, or apparently tending bar. “What are you doing here?”

  “Joe Dunphey’s wife went into labor and I said I’d cover the bar,” Rory said easily, moving on to the next glass.

  Well, sure. That pretty much summed up normality for Rory. “How’s life in the merchant marines?” I asked, playing our usual game.

  He grinned, revealing the Albertini charm. All of the men in our family had it. “Funny. I’m a traveling salesman selling pottery. The good kind that won’t crack if you put hot tea in it. I should sell you some.”

  Right. Sure, he was. I looked for Bernie and saw him alone in a far corner, slouched against the wall, his eyes closed. “Is he wearing his Santa outfit?” I gasped.

  Rory chuckled. “Only the coat over jeans. I think the hat is shoved in his back pocket.”

  Unbelievable. Either way, he wasn’t going anywhere at the moment, and I was fine letting him sleep it off. I per
ched on a stool and flopped my purse on the bar with a loud clunk.

  Rory’s eyebrow rose. “What are you packing?”

  “My LadySmith,” I said, looking at the alcohol bottles behind him on wooden shelves. “Got any wine?”

  “Not that you’d want to drink.” He reached under the bar and drew out a cold, brown bottle of Huckleberry Shanty from Wallace Brewing, which was located just beyond Silverville. Taking off the cap, he slid it across the bar to me. No beer mugs or coasters at Dunphey’s.

  “Thanks.” I took a deep drink, letting the sweet brew relax me. “You going to the family barbecue tomorrow?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” he said easily, positioning the now somewhat clean glasses to the shelf behind him. “Quint is debuting his new love. Hope she’s up to handling the family.”

  I nodded. “She is. I’ve met her and really like her. Heather is sweetly thoughtful and she adores him.” Their romance had started fast and wild, and I thought it’d last. “My bet is engagement by February.” I leaned toward him. “Any gossip?”

  “Yep. Bosco is seeing a woman named Marlie but doesn’t seem to know he is, and my bet is they’ll be married by July.” He grinned.

  Oh, good gossip. I hopped happily. “What about you? What ever happened to you and Serenity?” They’d dated for two years and had seemed close to making it permanent, and then nothing.

  Rory’s movements didn’t slow, but a light tension poured from him. “We had a misunderstanding, and I’ve given her until after Christmas—maybe until New Year’s—to deal with it.”

  I twirled the beer bottle in my hands. “Then what?”

  “Then I’m dealing with it,” he said, his smile one of danger.

  Interesting. “Well, if you need a lawyer, which it sounds like you might, give me a call.”

  “Legal counsel is the last thing either of us will need when I’m finished,” he said smoothly.

  I didn’t want to know more than that. “Any word on who killed Santa?” Perhaps he had his ear to the ground working at Dunphey’s.

  He poured tequila into a glass and tipped it back like it was water. “Rumor has it the ex-wife inherited a shitload of money, and considering she was seen canoodling with her ex at the Elk’s Christmas party last weekend, things aren’t looking good for drunk-ass Santa over there.” He eyed the bottle like he wanted another drink.

  I paused. That was good gossip and yet another thing Bernie hadn’t told me about. I slid off the stool. It was after midnight and had been a long day. A way too long of a day. “I should probably take my client somewhere…else.”

  Rory reached under the bar again and handed over a buck knife. “Took this off him earlier before he could lose one of his fingers. He’s not armed otherwise.”

  I slipped the knife into my bag. “Thanks.”

  “Yep.”

  The door opened, and Hoyt Forrest stomped inside, scattering snow. Two friends flanked him, and his gaze searched the entire bar, landing on Bernie.

  I sighed.

  Rory planted one hand on the bar and bounded gracefully over, landing sure-footed by my side. “Guns at waist and left leg,” he said beneath his breath.

  I set my stance. “Someday you’re gonna have to tell me what you really do for a living,” I muttered.

  “Huh,” he returned, already moving for the men. “Take your weapons back out to your rigs.” Without breaking eye contact, he nodded to the sign by the door. “No weapons in Dunphey’s. You gents know that.”

  Hoyt measured Rory, apparently decided to use his brain, and exited as quickly as he’d arrived.

  Rory lazily returned to the bar, leaning back on his elbows against it, right next to me. Waiting.

  Hoyt returned with his buddies—sans the weapons this time. The buddies moved for the bar and Hoyt moved for Bernie.

  I stepped forward.

  “Want me to handle it?” Rory asked casually.

  “No.” I wanted to sit both men down and figure this out. “I’ve got it.”

  Rory, as my cousin, was just as overprotective as the rest of them. Having been kidnapped as a child had somehow set me up with a vulnerability that my family couldn’t let go of—or maybe the vulnerability was theirs. Either way, he cleared his throat. “Hoyt? Anna is going to sit with you and Bernie over there. Don’t make me kill you.” He jumped back over the bar and thus missed Hoyt’s faltering and big swallow. Like big enough that his entire Adam’s apple moved wildly.

  I’d never considered Rory all that scary, but I guess he’d never threatened to kill me, either. He sounded legit. “You know Hoyt?”

  “Sure. I buy my bait and tackle at his store,” Rory said, moving down the bar to fetch beers for the newcomers.

  That was something to delve into at a later date. I hitched my bag over my arm and tried to pick up my feet when they briefly stuck to the floor on the way back to Bernie, who’d already sat up to watch us approach.

  Hoyt puffed out his chest. “Rumor has it you want to kill me.”

  Bernie’s eyes were so bloodshot they looked swollen. He tried to sit up straighter, but his chest ended up sinking in more with his shoulders hunched. “You set me up, you fucker. I know it was you.”

  Hoyt’s chin lifted. “You’re crazy, old man.”

  I edged closer to Bernie. “Set up? What do you mean?”

  “He knows,” Bernie slurred. “It was a normal poker game and then it wasn’t. I know what you did.” He coughed, the sound phlegm-filled.

  Now I took a step back. There wasn’t time in my schedule to get sick right now. Although it was probably the whiskey and smoke attacking Bernie’s lungs.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Hoyt snapped, snow still dotting the shoulders of his down jacket. “You and your ex-wife set my father up and then killed him. Thought you’d get rich and take that Vegas trip you’d always wanted, right? You won’t. I’m telling you, I’m taking you down. Santa or not.” He leaned in, his expression ugly. “We both know what happened to the coffers last year, don’t we?”

  Bernie bounded to his feet, surprisingly quick. “That wasn’t me. Your gambling debts have ruined everything. How is Gutter, anyway?”

  I could swear that Hoyt paled. “When I’m done with you and that gold-digging bitch—”

  Bernie threw a half-empty bowl of nuts at Hoyt’s face and then lunged over the table, knocking the nearest chair into my leg. I went down, scrambling for my gun as the two men collided.

  Gasping, I stood, my hand shaking.

  But it was already over.

  Rory had Bernie by the scruff of the neck and Hoyt by the wrist, which had been twisted in a way that made Hoyt remain on his knees with a snot-bubble poking out of his nose.

  I blinked and shoved my gun back where it belonged. Yeah. Someday I was going to find out what cousin Rory did when he wasn’t at home.

  But not tonight.

  Chapter 14

  I glanced over at the passed out senior citizen snoring in my passenger seat as I drove away from the bar, my headlights cutting through the snow. Bernie’s coat smelled like mothballs and mold, and when he farted, I nearly tossed him out into the snowstorm. Instead, I shoved him in the arm. “Bernie. Where do you live?”

  He snorted loudly and jerked, opening his eyes. “What? Uh? Where am I?” He tried to sit up and farted again.

  I flipped the wipers to a faster speed. “In my car. Where do you live?” I slowed down for a stoplight.

  “Oh.” He wiped his hands down his face. “Um, on Nineteenth Street. Just take a right at the next light.”

  If Timber City had a bad part of town, Nineteenth Street would meander right through it. The homes were run-down, the vehicles rusted out, and the meth busts a part of life. There were also hard-working people just trying to work out some financial problems, and I had no doubt many of them would love to leave Nineteenth Street.

  I drove farther away from the lake, from the main part of town, and along mature trees nobody seemed to tend. The snow cl
ung to their arching bows, giving them a romantic look that contrasted starkly with the crumbling homes on either side of us. The streetlights were new and boldly illustrated the run-down and depressing neighborhood. “Where?”

  “Two blocks down. First white apartment complex.” He dug his hat out of his pocket and sat it on his head. The white ball at the tip drooped sadly to his shoulder.

  I drove around a dirty chunk of ice that looked like it’d fallen off a large truck. “What was Hoyt talking about? That something happened to the coffers?”

  Bernie watched the darkened homes flow by outside. “Money went missing from the Kringle fund. I figured Lawrence took it to help Hoyt, but I don’t know.” He sighed, the sound weary, and his breath a mellow whiskey scent. “Maybe it’s our fault. We’ve played poker for money for decades, and I remember the first time Lawrence brought Hoyt to a game. The guy was just a kid.”

  That was sad. I pulled to the curb next to an unshoveled sidewalk in front of an older apartment building with a floodlight casting a wide net across the snow. The paint was more gray than white after age, and the metal railing on the steps leading from sidewalk to walkway hung haphazardly to the icy ground.

  “Bernie? What did you mean that Hoyt set you up?”

  He turned toward me in the quiet car, even his white whiskers looking limp. “Don’t you get it? I got really drunk at a game, somehow ended up in bed with some woman named Sharon Smith, and then she’s in Lawrence’s will? The same Lawrence who just proposed to my ex-wife? Obviously, it was a setup.”

  I swallowed and weighed the stench of the man in my car versus the freezing air outside. It was several hours past my bedtime, and I had trouble concentrating. I could maybe crack my window. “I caught that, but if that is the case, you had an even bigger motive for killing Lawrence.”

  Bernie coughed, shaking the dirty white fur down his red coat. “Sorry,” he gasped, his eyes widening. “I need to let up on the cigars.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt,” I agreed. “Did you have any idea that night with Sharon was a setup before the reading of Lawrence’s will?”