Murder on the Rocks by Allyson K. Abbott

once or twice with women he met, but he didn’t have a lot
     of free time because of his responsibilities to the bar. Most women didn’t hang around
     for long.”
    “Ginny didn’t mind the hours?”
    “Apparently not,” I said with a shrug. “She would drop by fairly often in the evenings
     and hang out. Sometimes she stayed until closing and helped us with the cleanup. Occasionally
     Dad would go to her place after, but most of their free time together happened in
     the mornings, or on Sundays when we don’t open until five.”
    “How did she get here?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean what form of transportation did she use? Bus? Cab? Car?”
    “Oh, she drove. She owns a nice little silver and blue Mercedes convertible.”
    “Always?”
    “You mean was it always that car, or did she always drive?”
    “Both.”
    “Yes, and yes, as far as I know. Why?”
    “Because we show her registered to the car you mentioned but we can’t find it. It’s
     not parked anywhere near here and it’s not at her home or office either.”
    “That’s odd.”
    “Do you think your father was in love with her?”
    His sudden shift of topic threw me for a second. “I think he was infatuated with her,”
     I blurted out, and as soon as the words left my mouth I wished I could take them back.
     Even I knew my answer had been too quick and a little harsh sounding.
    Albright stared at me for a moment. “I’m sensing some dislike on your part. Did you
     and Ginny get along?”
    I looked away from him, not wanting him to see the truth. Albright’s ability to read
     me made me wonder if he, too, had synesthetic tendencies. “Ginny kept nagging at my
     father to sell the place and retire.”
    “Sell it rather than hand it over to you?”
    I nodded. “She said they could use the money to travel.”
    “How did that idea set with you?”
    “It didn’t. My father and I were close. We only had each other, at least until Ginny
     came along.”
    “You were afraid of losing him to her.”
    It wasn’t worded as a question and I didn’t bother to answer. Albright decided to
     let it go and instead asked, “Did Ginny keep coming around after your father died?”
    “For a little while. She would drop in periodically, have a drink, and ask how I was
     doing. But we were never that close to begin with and it always felt . . . I don’t
     know . . . forced and awkward. Plus she kept trying to convince me I should sell the
     place and start over. When she realized I had no intention of putting the place up
     for sale, she quit coming around. I haven’t seen or talked to her in months.”
    “Is there any reason you know of that she would have come here last night or this
     morning?”
    I shook my head. “None that I can think of.”
    “Interesting,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “That makes me wonder if someone is trying
     to send you a message.”
    “A message?”
    “Why else dump the body behind your bar? Do you have any enemies, anyone you angered
     recently, anyone who might be interested in revenge?”
    “Not that I’m aware of. I mean, I have the occasional stupid drunk I have to toss
     out of the bar, or someone will get angry if I take their keys away and call a cab
     for them, but I’ve never known any of them to hold a grudge. Usually by the time they
     sober up the next morning, they realize I did them a favor.”
    “What about your father? Did he have any enemies?”
    “No,” I said without hesitation. “The cops who investigated his shooting asked me
     the same question and I told them no, too. My father was a kind, generous man who
     bent over backward to help other people. One year one of our regular patrons had a
     house fire the Friday before Christmas and they lost everything. Dad got on the phone
     and asked for donations from folks who he knew could afford to be generous. Then he
     spent several hundred dollars of his own money and bought gifts for the family: toys
     and clothes for the kids,