Irish Stewed Part 16

"Dinner, or are you looking for info?" I asked her.

"Dinner? Here?" She glanced around, a little uncertain, then realized that kind of charm would get her nowhere. "It's not like I haven't thought about ordering anything to eat here," Kim said, glossy curls swinging. "It's just that my schedule never allows it and it's never been convenient to stop in for a meal and-"

"Uh-huh." I backed up a step, the better to let her walk through the waiting area and to a table.

Like she was facing a firing squad, she squared her shoulders and looked at her companion. "Dustin? I'm game if you are."

Dustin was apparently game. I showed the duo to a table and wondered where the heck Denice was. It was after four and she should have been here, and now that we had something of a minirush (Okay, very mini) going, we'd be needing her.

As if just the thought conjured her up, Denice raced through the front door. Her son, Ronnie, was with her.

"Sorry." She zipped past me, her yellow Terminal polo shirt untucked. "Ronnie and I had some stuff to take care of at the bank and the lines were long and . . ." She waved her son over to a table. "I'll get you coffee, hon," she told him. "Just give me a minute."

Since she was getting herself settled, I grabbed a couple of my new, handwritten menus and gave one to Dustin and one to Kim.

"Irish stew?" She crinkled her nose.

I darted a glance across the street toward the Irish store. "A neighborhood family recipe," I told her, and was sure to add, "though I've changed it up a bit, made a few modifications."

"The Fury family?" Kim sat up and looked across the street, too. "All right, I'm game. I'll give it a try. Denice . . ." When the waitress zipped by, Kim b.u.t.tonholed her. "I'll try the stew and Dustin . . ." She looked his way and he nodded. "Make that two."

I am happy to report that the rest of the late afternoon went pretty much the same. Dale, Phil, Ruben, and Stan's significant others showed and brought along an a.s.sortment of friends and grandchildren. Once a couple of the reporters outside saw that Kim was inside at a table and talking to the staff, they obviously thought they were missing something; they came in and ordered, too. Marvin, the customer who a few days earlier had been worried that I'd scoop up Denice's $1.75 tip and leave town with it, showed up and sat down at a table close to where Ronnie sipped cup after cup of coffee and wolfed down the slice of apple pie I wasn't supposed to notice that Denice slipped him.

Inez-bless her!-arranged for her mom to watch her son and agreed to stay on a couple extra hours. I was headed into the waiting area to get the next batch of guests to seat, and met her near the table where Kim and Dustin were enjoying their stew.

"You're a genius," she said.

As much as I'd like to believe that, I wasn't convinced. "They're not all ordering the Irish stew."

She laughed. "They're not. Not all of them. But George said if you're keeping it on the menu for tomorrow, he'll have to make another batch in the morning."

"Hey, Inez! More coffee here!"

She glanced across the restaurant at Ronnie, who waved her over.

"Kid must have kidneys like n.o.body else in the world," she grumbled at the same time she held up a finger to tell him she'd be right there. "Drinks plenty of coffee and never budges from that table."

"And, let me guess, he never actually orders a meal. Not one he's going to pay for, anyway."

She rolled her dark eyes.

Apparently, that was enough to signal to Denice what-and who-we were talking about. "He's a good kid," she said when she zipped by with a tray on her shoulder. "And it's not like he's taking up a table where customers would be sitting. Well, not usually, anyway. Am I right, Marvin?" She raised her voice enough to be heard by Marvin, who was seated two tables away. "My Ronnie, he's a good kid, right?"

Marvin wiped a paper napkin over his mouth. "The best. He should be on TV!"

"Yeah!" Denice laughed. "Imagine him on the big screen. You know, one of those flat-screen TVs like they hang on the wall, forty-two inches wide."

"Forty-eight inches," Ronnie called out. "I'd look way better on a screen that was forty-eight inches wide."

"Forty-eight inches." Marvin chuckled. "Yeah, that sounds good."

It was all in good fun and we all laughed before we headed off to our duties. Denice and Inez waited on customers. I ducked into the kitchen to make sure George was handling the rush, and I wasn't surprised to see that he was. As long as I was in there, I talked him out of two pieces of chocolate cream pie and brought them out front with me. I set one piece down in front of Dustin and the other in front of Kim. That is, before I sat down in the seat across from hers.

"What's this? We didn't order pie."

"Compliments of the house," I told her. "If this is your first time eating here, we want to make sure you have a good experience."

Dustin-who was apparently a man of few words-dug in. Kim took a bite of pie and smiled her approval. "I wasn't lying," she said, her disposition sweetened by the combination of chocolate pudding and real cream whipped to peaks of perfection. "I have thought about eating here before. I've just never had the opportunity. Then when Jack's body was found here . . . well"-she set down her fork-"I have to admit that just the thought of eating a meal in a place where a murder happened . . ." She shivered and hugged her arms around herself.

I glanced at Kim's and Dustin's empty dinner plates. "Well, I'm glad you enjoyed your dinners in spite of all that. And I was wondering . . ." I waited until Kim lifted her fork again. With any luck, she'd keep her mind on George's rich and creamy pie and she wouldn't notice how eager I was for an answer. "Have you found out anything? You said you were looking into the Lance of Justice's old files. And I know it's none of my business," I was sure to add even though since the murder went down at the Terminal, I figured it kind of was. "But I just can't help but wondering if there's some connection to the restaurant."

And to the woman who owns it.

I clamped my lips shut and didn't dare let those last words sneak past them. The last thing I needed was to let some nosy reporter find out that I had my suspicions about Sophie.

What I got in return from Kim was a smile that I wouldn't exactly call gracious. I had a feeling it was more like the kind of smile she would have given a cute-but naughty-puppy. Or someone she considered far below her in brainpower.

"The story of the Lance of Justice's murder has local Emmy written all over it," she crooned. "You know I can't give away the details. They're just too delicious."

I wasn't sure if this was good news or bad. That would explain why my heart started up a funny, stuttering rhythm inside my chest. "Then, you do know something?"

She gobbled down the last bite of chocolate pie and her timing was perfect; Denice came over to collect the dishes just as Kim said, "Not only do I know something, but I have a line on who killed the Lance of Justice, and why."

I caught my breath, almost afraid to ask, "Shouldn't you tell the police?"

Kim sat back so Denice could reach across the table and grab Dustin's plate. "Not yet," she purred. "I'm not quite ready yet to reveal all. I will tell you . . ." She looked left and right and, sure that none of the other reporters were anywhere near, she leaned closer and lowered her voice. "I will tell you something curious and maybe you can explain it to me."

I swallowed hard and prayed that Sophie's name wasn't about to come up. "I'll try."

"I went through Jack's files. You know, as part of digging into his life and his final days. He had receipts from here at the Terminal. He was here just about every day."

This wasn't news and I told her so.

"But here's the thing I think is weird." She scooted her chair closer to mine and it sc.r.a.ped across the weathered floor like fingernails on a blackboard. "This is the most people I've ever seen in this place. I'm right, right?" She didn't wait for me to answer. "I mean, no offense, but every time I looked in the windows before today, this place was like a morgue. No customers. So, I'm thinking in the last few weeks when Jack was here, there weren't all that many customers, either. I'm guessing . . ." She looked around and then, because she was afraid she'd look too obvious and some of the other reporters at nearby tables might catch on, she sat back and stared down at the table in front of her. "He could have sat anywhere, right? I mean, if there were no customers, he would have just waltzed in and sat anywhere he wanted to."

"That's not exactly the way it works in restaurants," I told her. "When there are fewer customers . . ." Notice I did not use the words no customers. "We generally close off a section or two. Let's say it was a typical afternoon. We might have seated Jack over by the windows because people like to watch the trains go by and so that's the first section we fill. We'd leave the tables by the kitchen empty and the ones over there." I waved in the general area of the tables along the front of the restaurant where I'd found Jack's body. "There's no use having our waitresses running all over the place. If we keep our customers contained in one area, our waitstaff has less ground to cover."

"Well, that explains it, then." Kim nodded like she'd already thought of this theory on her own and just needed confirmation. "See, every receipt I have of his says Jack was seated at table number sixteen. Every time he came here. So I guess table number sixteen"-she gave the restaurant a sharp-eyed once-over-"that must be right over by the windows somewhere."

I managed a smile and, three cheers for me, I kept it in place, too. Right before I pointed toward the windows along the back of the Terminal and to a table that was definitely not table number sixteen.

"Right over there," I told Kim.

A lie?

Theoretically, I guess it was. But see, I had my reasons and they bounced around inside my head along with the question that burned through my brain.

Jack Lancer kept his receipts from the Terminal?

Before I got carried away, I reminded myself that there were any number of possible reasons.

He might have kept the receipts because he was simply careless and didn't clean out his files often enough.

Or it could have been because he was dishonest and had plans to scam the system.

But those receipts might mean something else, too. And my money was on that something else.

See, if Jack kept his Terminal receipts in with his business files, that told me he thought of the money he spent here at the restaurant as legitimate business expenses.

And that meant he was hanging around the Terminal because he was working on a story.

Ice formed in my stomach, but I kept my voice even when I managed to say, "Maybe Jack liked to watch the trains."

"Maybe." Kim gathered her purse and her receipt and went up front to the register with Dustin trailing behind, and because I knew Inez and Denice were both busy, I cashed them out. I counted to ten once Kim and Dustin were out the front door, and when I was done, I counted to ten again and I refused to budge. Just in case Kim happened to look back, I didn't want to look too eager.

With that in mind, I took my time when I strolled back into the restaurant to do a little verification of my own.

Table sixteen.

I skirted the jut-out that was the back wall of the waiting area and headed over to the tables at the front of the restaurant, where I'd found Jack's body.

That table, just for the record, was number fourteen.

And table number sixteen?

I got to that table-the one right next to the one at which Jack had spent his last moments on earth-and sat down where Jack must have sat all those days when he'd been here on business, all those days when he must have been working on a lead.

And a story.

And an investigation.

And I looked where he'd been looking all that time. And watched what he must have been watching.

My heart skipped a beat, then another one just for good measure.

Table number sixteen.

Table number sixteen gave Jack Lancer a bird's-eye view of the Irish store.

Chapter 14.

"What, no line out the door yet?"

We'd been blessedly busy on Friday evening, that was for sure, but we were far from slammed, so I should have known Declan wasn't serious. That didn't keep me from stepping back, my weight against one foot, and giving him a long, hard look when he breezed into the Terminal bright and early on Sat.u.r.day morning.

That is, right before I looked over his shoulder, out the window, and at the Irish store.

Curious?

Oh, I wasn't just curious about what the Lance of Justice had been up to every day with his b.u.t.t in a chair and his eyes on Declan's business, I was downright dying to figure out what was going on.

And if it had anything to do with Sophie.

And Jack Lancer's death.

Hoping to make it look like I wasn't nearly as interested as I really was, I kept my voice cool and level when I asked, "Don't you have a first communion party to go to?"

"You remembered." Declan was carrying a box, one of those white cardboard archive boxes with a lid, and he set it down on the rolltop desk. "You sure you don't want to come?"

"To your family party?" Because I couldn't explain how the very thought of being with that much family was not only unfamiliar, but terrifying, I didn't elaborate and I didn't answer. "What are you doing here at this time of the morning?" I asked him instead.

"The party doesn't start until this afternoon." As if he had every right, he moved toward the kitchen. "That means I have time for a cup of coffee. Have I told you that you make a really good cup of coffee?"

Flattery would get him nowhere, and he should have realized that by now. But I hadn't had my first cup of coffee yet, either, and I did want to dig a little deeper. Into Declan's business. Into Declan's motives. I pushed through the swinging kitchen door and behind me, he stopped, his fists on his hips, and breathed in deep.

"Mom's Irish stew! I'd know the smell that lingers in the air for days anywhere. So, what I heard yesterday isn't just a neighborhood rumor."

"Before you get the wrong idea-"

"Would I?" When he stepped nearer and looked down at me, his eyes gleamed. "Get the wrong idea, I mean. What about?"

"It is your mother's recipe." Since that index card from Ellen was out on the counter, there was no use denying it. "But I made some modifications."

As if he'd never seen the recipe before-and really, I didn't believe this; I think he'd seen it so many times, he knew it by heart-he picked up the card and read over the ingredients.

"I changed up the red wine for b.l.o.o.d.y Mary mix to give it a little kick," I told him, pointing to the entry in his mother's neat handwriting. "I added a little bit of brown sugar and a dash of Irish whiskey, too."

"You didn't mess with the Guinness, did you?"

"Never!" I handed Declan a cup of coffee and poured one for myself.

"There's a tradition in my family," he told me. "About how stew is always better the day after it's prepared. Especially if you allow it to simmer on the stove nice and slow for a couple of hours before you serve it. But that doesn't mean a bowl of it couldn't be heated up in the microwave. I mean, if there was an emergency."

He was teasing.

And I was thinking it was the perfect opening I needed. To get him to hang around. To get him to talk.

With a smile I hoped didn't look too self-satisfied, I took a bowl to the cooler, loaded it with some of yesterday's stew, and stuck it in the microwave.

"Are you going to report back to your mother?" I asked him while it heated.

"No doubt she already knows what you're up to. Kitty and Pat would have made sure of that."