Читать книгу From Beer to Eternity - Sherry Harris - Страница 16

CHAPTER 8

At eleven fifteen someone pounded on the back door. I had everything like Joaquín always did. Fruit was cut and out, napkins and stirrers replenished. Glasses at the ready. I was ready, willing, and fingers and toes crossed hopefully able.

One of the regulars, a man who’d ignored me up to this point, stood outside. “Why’s the door locked?” he asked as he breezed past me through the kitchen and into the bar. Vivi! She usually left the back door unlocked and regulars used it all the time. Easy enough for one of them to grab a channel knife on their way in or out. Heck, it didn’t even have to be a regular. Anyone could have slipped in and out unnoticed. Especially because the camera wasn’t working.

The man slid into a seat midway between the doors that opened to the beach and the bar. His back to the wall. His Florida Gators hat tipped back. Another regular, a woman with gray, permed hair, who’d come in the front, sat opposite him on the other side of the bar. I grabbed a notebook and approached the woman first.

“What can I help you with?” I asked.

She looked askance at me. Her skin defined the term “leathery.” “Help me with?” There was a chuckle in her voice.

Oops. The “help you with” came from working at the library. But before I could correct it and ask her what she’d like to drink, she was talking.

“Well, a lot of things. My car needs vacuuming, my knee aches, and my grown kids won’t move out.” She paused. “Can you help me with any of that?”

Never count out a librarian when you needed something. “You might try drinking a combination of apple cider vinegar, honey, and cinnamon for the aching knees.” Librarians had a lot of aches and pains from all the standing, sitting, and squatting that took place with finding and reshelving books. “I have a coupon for a free vacuuming with car wash I can give you. But you’re on your own with the kids. If a drink would help, I can handle that.” I hoped.

She laughed. “I’ll take you up on that coupon. And a mimosa would be a great start. Thanks.”

“One mimosa coming up.” That I could do. I’d attended many a brunch in Chicago, where all the mimosas you could drink were included in the price. I walked over to the man.

“What can I get you to drink?”

“No offers of help for me?” He looked dead serious.

“It depends on what you need.”

“I need a drink. Why else would I come in here?”

I could think of a lot of reasons—to hang out with friends, to enjoy the view, to look at Joaquín. I kept my opinions to myself. “What would you like?”

“I’ll have an old-fashioned.”

I waited for him to go on, pen poised. I looked up when he didn’t say anything else. He stared at me. “An old-fashioned what?” I asked.

“It’s a drink. An old-fashioned.” He said it slowly, like I wasn’t too bright. It seems like that had been happening a lot lately. “Where’s Vivi and Joaquín?”

As if I knew. “Fishing and out getting things for Elwell’s memorial.” That sounded good. “I’ll get that drink for you.”

I hurried behind the bar, grabbed my phone, and did a quick search of how to make an old-fashioned. I found a brief history, which I knew I should ignore but scanned quickly. I blame the librarian side of my personality. I’d been curious as a kid, to my detriment sometimes.

The word “cocktail” dated back to 1776 and supposedly came about when a woman in New York ran out of wooden stirrers and grabbed the feather of a cock’s tail to use instead. Ack. That sounded disgusting. The old-fashioned was considered a classic drink, and there was some argument about whether fruit should be included and muddled, meaning you pressed the fresh ingredients—like herbs or fruit—against the sides or bottom of the glass to release the flavors. As much as I wanted to keep reading, I needed to skip ahead to the actual making instead of muddling along here.

I found the lumps of sugar and dropped one into the bottom of a rocks glass, which I just learned was also called an old-fashioned glass. I studied the liquor—or spirits, as Joaquín called them—behind the bar. Instead of the usual shelving, Vivi had the liquor in various open-fronted, staggered wooden cabinets that gave the place a homey feel. I finally found the Angostura bitters, whatever they were, and crushed the sugar and bitters together as instructed. I added two ounces of whiskey and gave it a stir. Then I garnished, as directed, with a lemon peel twist, orange slice, and maraschino cherry. It looked pretty. I was quite proud of myself.

I whipped together the mimosa, put both drinks on a tray, and delivered them, ladies first. The two customers lifted their drinks. I think I saw the man wink.

“To Elwell. May he rest in peace,” the woman said.

“Unlikely. But I’ll drink to that,” he said.

Both took a drink and neither spit them out. Woo-hoo. Success. I wanted to hear whether they were going to say anything else about Elwell, so I started straightening some of the many pictures that lined the walls. Some were old advertisements. Lots of photos—many of which were black and white. Most didn’t need straightening. I turned my back to the customers in an attempt to look like I wasn’t eavesdropping.

“Why don’t you think he’ll rest in peace?” she asked.

“Too ornery. Caused too many problems while he was here.” He paused, maybe took a drink. “A man must have to pay up at some point.”

I took a closer look at the photo in front of me. Black and white. A young Vivi and Elwell. They looked to be in their late teens, but sometimes I found it hard to tell how old people are in old photos. They stood on the beach in swimwear, arms slung around each other. Vivi’s head was thrown back, laughing. A young woman stood off to the side, arms crossed and glaring.

“Well, aren’t you philosophical today, and you haven’t even finished your first drink of the day,” the woman said.

“Who says this is my first drink?” the man replied.

I turned to them. “This photo looks like Vivi and Elwell.” The woman got up and came over to me. The man just swiveled on his barstool and squinted.

“That’s them,” he said. He turned back to his drink.

“High school sweethearts,” the woman said. “They had a bad breakup while Vivi was in college.”

“Really?” I asked. Could their argument—if it was them arguing—have had something to do with their past? More likely it had to do with him wearing that weird armadillo hat. I couldn’t be the only one who’d noticed it was scaring away customers. Or was it some combination of the past and present? “How bad was their breakup?”

“So bad that it’s amazing they were ever in the same room again.”

Interesting. Yet Elwell had married someone else—he wore a wedding band—and hung around in the bar. Even more astonishing was that Vivi let him. She wasn’t one to tolerate anyone’s bull as far as I could tell. There was that old saying that time heals all wounds. Maybe time had healed theirs.

The woman went back to her seat, so I headed back to the bar. I took another peek at the history of the old-fashioned. In 1806 a cocktail was considered a drink with liquor, sugar, water, and bitters. 1806! Jefferson was president. Cocktails had been around a long time.

I checked on my two customers. “How’s everything?” I asked the man.

“I’ve had worse,” he said.

Deflated, I turned to the woman. She glanced at the man. “Mine’s perfect. Not watered down with too much orange juice like so many places.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“And ‘I’ve had worse’ is high praise from that cranky Yankee,” she said. Loud enough for him to hear. I gave her a quick smile. “His forefathers left New England and came down here in the eighteen hundreds for the fishing.”

I nodded politely.

“His family has been here longer than most. But somehow you can take a cranky Yankee out of New England . . .”

“But you can’t take the cranky out of the Yankee,” he finished for her. “Heard it a million times from you, old woman.”

“And you’ll hear it a million more, old man,” she said back.

He looked at me. “At least you didn’t muddle the fruit. It’s an atrocity to call it an old-fashioned when people do that.”

Well, my lack of muddling experience had worked well in this case.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, a group of college-aged girls stumbled in. It looked like they’d either been out all night or gotten an early start. I wasn’t sure what the policy was for serving people who looked tipsy. There must be Florida laws about that, but up until now I’d just done as I was told. No decision-making necessary. I guess I’d have to wing it until Joaquín showed up.

One of the girls wore a tiara with a wedding veil attached. It sat askew on the top of her light red hair. She’d make a lovely if tipsy bride. I sure hoped this was her bachelorette party and not her wedding day. I headed over. The girls started shouting their orders. All of them wanted some kind of fruity frozen drinks. Daiquiris, margaritas, strawberry, peach. One asked for a Bahama Mama. A faint sweat dampened my forehead. I had to figure out something fast.

“Mimosas are fifty percent off this morning,” I said.

“Yay,” the one with the veil said. “Mimosas for everyone.”

I did a happy dance in my head. And in my head, my moves were every bit as good as Joaquín’s. The only downside was it would create a deficit in Vivi’s revenue. I’d make up for the extra out of my own pocket. It would be so worth it.

“I’ll need to see some ID.” They all grumbled and complained, but I heard far worse in the library. Try telling a little old lady her time was up on Ancestry.com and that another patron was waiting for the computer. I’ve heard sailors with better language. Fortunately, every last one of them actually had a valid ID.

As I walked back past the other woman, I stopped. “I’ll make yours fifty percent off too.”

“You’re quick on your feet,” she said. “But Vivi isn’t one to give deals to tourists.”

“I’ll take care of it,” I said.

I quickly got out champagne flutes. I made these with more orange juice than sparkling wine. After I delivered them I took over glasses of water too. They looked like they needed to hydrate. Another group of people came in—eight couples. I was seriously questioning my life decisions and praying that Joaquín would show up. I took their orders. The men all wanted beers (thank heavens) and the women decided on the half-price mimosas. As I returned to the bar, Joaquín walked in.

I flung my arms around him. “You’re here,” I said. He smelled great—salt air and soap.

He gave me a quick hug before freeing himself. “Where’s Vivi?”

“No idea. I saw her when I was out on my morning run. She gave me the keys and told me to open.”

I could tell by how his brow crinkled that this was unusual behavior, but there wasn’t time to speculate with the crowd he had. Joaquín and I worked together, preparing the beers and mimosas. They didn’t use frosty beer mugs at the Sea Glass. Joaquín told me it was because as the ice melted on the mug, it would dilute the flavor of the beer. Who knew?

After I delivered the drinks I came back.

“Why in the world are mimosas so popular this morning?” he asked.

“Um, maybe because they’re fifty percent off?” My voice rose at the end of the sentence.

“Vivi won’t—”

“Like that. I heard.” I pointed to the woman with the permed hair. “It was that or trying to figure out how to make a bunch of different frozen drinks.” Some bars had frozen drink machines, but Vivi insisted that all our drinks had to be made fresh. “Don’t worry. I’ll make up the difference.” I loaded up the tray, carried it over, and distributed drinks. Fortunately, I was used to carting books and kids around the library, so I could take the weight. The dexterity to distribute them without spilling was a new challenge. But I managed it this morning.

Joaquín and I worked well together. While he was a whiz with drinks, I was great at small talk and keeping things clean and orderly. With Vivi gone, I was more relaxed and began to enjoy myself. Working here was kind of fun.

“I got a text from Vivi.” Joaquín held up his phone. “She said she’s out making arrangements so we can have a memorial for Elwell tonight.”

“Do you think that’s what she’s really doing?” Why wouldn’t she be here doing that? “I don’t know. But can you make up a couple of signs that say we’re closed at seven for a private event?”

“Vivi’s going to close for the memorial?”

“It will be plenty busy just with the locals here. No one will want curious tourists around.”

I hadn’t thought about curious tourists. I looked over the crowd. Were any of these people here because there’d been a murder? I shrugged, unlocked Vivi’s office, and found cardboard and Sharpies. The office was cramped but tidy. Her desk faced a beautiful oil painting that captured the emerald color of the water. There were black and white photographs of the Sea Glass from early days, along with others of fishermen. The desk was old and scarred. The chair, modern and ergonomic. Almost seemed like a metaphor for this area—the old and new trying to work together, but not always succeeding.

I sat at Vivi’s desk and quickly made three signs, two for outside and one for inside. I didn’t embellish them because that seemed like it would be disrespectful to Elwell. The temptation to look through drawers was strong, but I made the difficult decision to skip that. I hung the signs and got back to work.

* * *

By three, even Joaquín looked really worried, and I assumed it was about Vivi’s whereabouts, although I’d also mentioned the outside security camera was pointing straight down. He didn’t say it out loud, but he’d spent a good part of the last hour looking toward the back door in between mixing drinks. He’d also made several phone calls. As far as I could tell, whoever he was calling didn’t answer. I heard him muttering in Spanish a couple of times. Something about loco, crazy. The muttering was a first since I’d met him. That didn’t bode well, and I was starting to worry too.

“Where do you think she is?” I finally asked. “I’m guessing from your demeanor this isn’t normal behavior for Vivi.” I didn’t know her well enough to be certain what normal behavior was. I tried to remember the bits and pieces Boone had said about his grandmother. None of it included wandering off for hours without letting her employees know where she was.

“Will you go next door and check with Wade about the food for tonight?” Joaquín asked.

I looked at him for a moment. “Sure.” Why should he confide in me? I hadn’t been here that long. Still, I was disappointed. Joaquín was the only friend I had here—or sort of friend, apparently. I went out the front and stopped to gaze at the beach scene. Volleyball players, sunbathers, sandcastle builders, and people with metal detectors all cohabited the beach in harmony. Maybe it was just too hot to fuss about anything. A couple of Jet Skis darted around on the placid water as I made my way through the soft sand to the Briny Pirate.

It was an old wooden structure with only a small sign over the door that said, “Briny Pirate.” Nothing big or garish along this strip of beach. No flashing neon signs, or many signs of any kind. It kept the natural beauty of the area the focus. Like the Sea Glass, the Briny Pirate had a deck on the ocean-facing side. I wove my way through the tables and stepped inside. The interior was decorated with fishing nets, fake gold coins, and a talking treasure box in one corner that kept kids amused. The scent of barbecue wafted in from the smoker on the west side of the building. I realized I was hungry.

Vivi sat at the four-seater bar talking to Wade, their foreheads almost touching. She had a glass of iced tea in front of her. Moisture beaded on the glass, which was only about a quarter full, so she’d been here a while or had guzzled it. I was part aggravated and part relieved. At least she was okay. Their conversation looked intense. The only words that floated over were “questioned” and “Deputy Biffle.”