eye to the gentler sex, Buddy knew where mine had come to rest. He grinned. “I bet you can’t guess who that gal is.”
I studied the photo—the woman did look vaguely and freshly familiar. “I’m not . . .”
“Genevieve McNeil.”
I could feel my eyes widen as I stared at the photo. Something struck me, and I moved back to the photograph of the burned dance hall and the small crowd out front, then I moved and studied the photo before that one and the photo before that.
I looked back over my shoulder past Lucian and the chessboard to where Mrs. McNeil sat with her flock of cronies. After a second, she glanced up to see me looking at her. I swiveled my head to reexamine the third photo and then turned to look at her again, and she wore an expression that I had grown accustomed to seeing in the business of enforcing the law.
I turned back to the ex-mayor. “Genevieve McNeil was married to Bill Miller?”
Distracted by the few residents lining up at the broom closet for holiday cheer, he responded absentmindedly. “About ten years. She finally left him and married a man named McNeil, and it wasn’t too long after that that Bill died.”
I glanced back again, but Genevieve had returned to conversing with her friends and was now ignoring me. I noticed Lucian waving to get my attention and apologized to Bud for taking him away from his duties as bartender. He laughed, thumped my back with the flat of his bony hand, and returned to the makeshift bar as I ambled back to the chessboard.
“You gonna play chess or gallivant all night?”
I sat and reached down to pet Dog, who was snoring. I played at examining the board and threw out a question. “Hey, Lucian, do you remember when the Antelope
Bar on Main Street burned down back in the late seventies?”
He snorted. “When that dumbass in the slurry bomber missed the whole damn thing? Christ, I coulda’ hit that buildingfrom five thousand feet with a sack of potatoes. Yeah, I remember. Why?”
“Do you recall who the primary witness was?”
Annoyed, he looked up from the board. “The fire?”
“Yep.”
He grunted a dismissal. “No.”
“Wasn’t it Genevieve McNeil?”
He thought about it with his lips pressed together and his heavy eyebrows crouched over his dark eyes. “Mighta’ been the old she-buzzard, hell, I don’t know—but then, it seems I don’t know much lately.”
* * *
That match and the next one were mine, but then he got focused and beat me three in a row.
It was approaching midnight, and Lucian understood my preference for being home in my cabin on New Year’s Eve in case Cady decided to call from Philadelphia. Dog joined me in standing as I picked up my coat. I glanced around the room, but Genevieve had disappeared. “You want me to walk you to your room? I know you don’t want to be in here at midnight.”
He looked up, half startled. “What, you gonna give me a kiss—or are you afraid I can’t find it? Besides, they got it locked.”
I pulled out my pocket watch to check and make sure I had plenty of time to get home. “C’mon.” Dog followed us as we made our way down the hallway toward room 32, and I looked over my shoulder to make sure that none of the staff was following. Giving his only leg a rest and pulling his briarwood pipe and beaded tobacco pouch from the pocket of his wool vest, the old sheriff leaned against the wall and watched me.
I pulled a credit card from my wallet and slipped it between the facing and the door, about where the catch mechanism was, but it only went halfway.
Lucian cleared his throat and lit his pipe. “They turned ’em so you can’t do that anymore.”
“Hmm . . .” I put the card back in my wallet. “I guess we have to go back to the old standby.” I gripped the knob in both hands, placed a shoulder against the jamb in order to force it away from the catch, and pushed. There was a slight cracking noise, and the door came open. I reached around, unlocked
I studied the photo—the woman did look vaguely and freshly familiar. “I’m not . . .”
“Genevieve McNeil.”
I could feel my eyes widen as I stared at the photo. Something struck me, and I moved back to the photograph of the burned dance hall and the small crowd out front, then I moved and studied the photo before that one and the photo before that.
I looked back over my shoulder past Lucian and the chessboard to where Mrs. McNeil sat with her flock of cronies. After a second, she glanced up to see me looking at her. I swiveled my head to reexamine the third photo and then turned to look at her again, and she wore an expression that I had grown accustomed to seeing in the business of enforcing the law.
I turned back to the ex-mayor. “Genevieve McNeil was married to Bill Miller?”
Distracted by the few residents lining up at the broom closet for holiday cheer, he responded absentmindedly. “About ten years. She finally left him and married a man named McNeil, and it wasn’t too long after that that Bill died.”
I glanced back again, but Genevieve had returned to conversing with her friends and was now ignoring me. I noticed Lucian waving to get my attention and apologized to Bud for taking him away from his duties as bartender. He laughed, thumped my back with the flat of his bony hand, and returned to the makeshift bar as I ambled back to the chessboard.
“You gonna play chess or gallivant all night?”
I sat and reached down to pet Dog, who was snoring. I played at examining the board and threw out a question. “Hey, Lucian, do you remember when the Antelope
Bar on Main Street burned down back in the late seventies?”
He snorted. “When that dumbass in the slurry bomber missed the whole damn thing? Christ, I coulda’ hit that buildingfrom five thousand feet with a sack of potatoes. Yeah, I remember. Why?”
“Do you recall who the primary witness was?”
Annoyed, he looked up from the board. “The fire?”
“Yep.”
He grunted a dismissal. “No.”
“Wasn’t it Genevieve McNeil?”
He thought about it with his lips pressed together and his heavy eyebrows crouched over his dark eyes. “Mighta’ been the old she-buzzard, hell, I don’t know—but then, it seems I don’t know much lately.”
* * *
That match and the next one were mine, but then he got focused and beat me three in a row.
It was approaching midnight, and Lucian understood my preference for being home in my cabin on New Year’s Eve in case Cady decided to call from Philadelphia. Dog joined me in standing as I picked up my coat. I glanced around the room, but Genevieve had disappeared. “You want me to walk you to your room? I know you don’t want to be in here at midnight.”
He looked up, half startled. “What, you gonna give me a kiss—or are you afraid I can’t find it? Besides, they got it locked.”
I pulled out my pocket watch to check and make sure I had plenty of time to get home. “C’mon.” Dog followed us as we made our way down the hallway toward room 32, and I looked over my shoulder to make sure that none of the staff was following. Giving his only leg a rest and pulling his briarwood pipe and beaded tobacco pouch from the pocket of his wool vest, the old sheriff leaned against the wall and watched me.
I pulled a credit card from my wallet and slipped it between the facing and the door, about where the catch mechanism was, but it only went halfway.
Lucian cleared his throat and lit his pipe. “They turned ’em so you can’t do that anymore.”
“Hmm . . .” I put the card back in my wallet. “I guess we have to go back to the old standby.” I gripped the knob in both hands, placed a shoulder against the jamb in order to force it away from the catch, and pushed. There was a slight cracking noise, and the door came open. I reached around, unlocked
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