Read Online Murder on the Rocks by Allyson K. Abbott - Free Book Online
Authors: Allyson K. Abbott
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kitchen knife set was missing.
It served as a sobering reminder that I might be a prime suspect in Ginny’s murder.
I spent a few minutes straightening things but my mind was too focused on what was
going on downstairs. I returned to the bar and looked for Albright, but he was nowhere
to be seen, a fact that left me feeling both relieved and oddly disappointed. But
if I thought his absence meant I would be left alone to prep for the evening opening,
a ponytailed, female, crime scene tech who looked to be about twelve years old made
it clear that wouldn’t be the case.
“My name is Jenny and I need to fingerprint you for our files,” she said. No doubt
recalling my earlier meltdown, she quickly added, “It’s standard procedure, ma’am.
We need to rule your prints out from any others we find.”
I winced at the term ma’am, which made me feel like Methuselah and wondered just how young these techs were.
“Please, call me Mack,” I said, smiling my warmest to put her at ease. She nodded,
making her ponytail swing merrily. “And let’s get this done. I have to get ready to
open.”
I was anticipating a black inky mess to be made of my fingers but instead Jenny produced
a small device with a scanner pad on it.
“We’ll start with your thumb,” she said. “Just place it on the pad here and push down.”
I did as she said and after she rolled my thumb from side to side, we repeated the
process nine more times, using a different digit each time. When we were done, she
thanked me and headed off to a far corner where she had a laptop set up on one of
my tables. I offer free wi-fi to my patrons because many of my day customers are folks
who drop in for lunch breaks during their workday and they bring along their laptops
or tablets. Was Jenny using my connection, or did she have some special access all
her own? If she was using mine, I wondered if there was any way to tell what she was
doing on her computer. If there was, it was way beyond my computer abilities, though
I knew of a customer who might be able to help.
There was a lot of cleaning to do. The crime scene techs weren’t concerned with neatness,
and after getting an okay from them, I started wiping down the bar area, cleaning
up the fingerprint powder that seemed to cover everything in sight. I was halfway
down the bar when Albright surprised me by poking his head out of the kitchen door
and calling to me. I thought he’d left the premises.
“There’s something I want you to look at,” he said, beckoning me into the kitchen
with a wave of his hand and leading me over to the prep table. Sitting to one side
of it was a wooden block that held a knife set. With a chill I saw that one of them
was missing.
“Do you know where this knife might be?” Albright asked.
“No,” I said, looking around the rest of the kitchen with a sickening certainty that
I wouldn’t find it elsewhere. “It was there last night. It’s the main knife I use
to chop my fruit and veggies. I cleaned it after we closed last night and put it back
where it belongs.”
“Who has access to this kitchen area?” Albright asked.
“All of my employees,” I said with a shrug. “Is it . . . was it . . .” I couldn’t
manage to say the horrible thing I was thinking.
“Was it the knife used to kill Ginny?” Albright finished for me. I nodded. “I don’t
know. We didn’t find any knife at the scene but the techs are still sifting through
all the trash in the alley.” With his gloved hand he pulled the other knives from
the block, one at a time, examining each one. “Can you describe the missing one for
me?”
“It has a blade about eight inches long, two inches wide at the handle.”
“Serrated?”
“No.”
Albright sighed and turned his attention to the crime scene techs standing nearby.
“Bag these,” he said. “And the block, too.” Then he removed his gloves, took my arm,
and steered
It served as a sobering reminder that I might be a prime suspect in Ginny’s murder.
I spent a few minutes straightening things but my mind was too focused on what was
going on downstairs. I returned to the bar and looked for Albright, but he was nowhere
to be seen, a fact that left me feeling both relieved and oddly disappointed. But
if I thought his absence meant I would be left alone to prep for the evening opening,
a ponytailed, female, crime scene tech who looked to be about twelve years old made
it clear that wouldn’t be the case.
“My name is Jenny and I need to fingerprint you for our files,” she said. No doubt
recalling my earlier meltdown, she quickly added, “It’s standard procedure, ma’am.
We need to rule your prints out from any others we find.”
I winced at the term ma’am, which made me feel like Methuselah and wondered just how young these techs were.
“Please, call me Mack,” I said, smiling my warmest to put her at ease. She nodded,
making her ponytail swing merrily. “And let’s get this done. I have to get ready to
open.”
I was anticipating a black inky mess to be made of my fingers but instead Jenny produced
a small device with a scanner pad on it.
“We’ll start with your thumb,” she said. “Just place it on the pad here and push down.”
I did as she said and after she rolled my thumb from side to side, we repeated the
process nine more times, using a different digit each time. When we were done, she
thanked me and headed off to a far corner where she had a laptop set up on one of
my tables. I offer free wi-fi to my patrons because many of my day customers are folks
who drop in for lunch breaks during their workday and they bring along their laptops
or tablets. Was Jenny using my connection, or did she have some special access all
her own? If she was using mine, I wondered if there was any way to tell what she was
doing on her computer. If there was, it was way beyond my computer abilities, though
I knew of a customer who might be able to help.
There was a lot of cleaning to do. The crime scene techs weren’t concerned with neatness,
and after getting an okay from them, I started wiping down the bar area, cleaning
up the fingerprint powder that seemed to cover everything in sight. I was halfway
down the bar when Albright surprised me by poking his head out of the kitchen door
and calling to me. I thought he’d left the premises.
“There’s something I want you to look at,” he said, beckoning me into the kitchen
with a wave of his hand and leading me over to the prep table. Sitting to one side
of it was a wooden block that held a knife set. With a chill I saw that one of them
was missing.
“Do you know where this knife might be?” Albright asked.
“No,” I said, looking around the rest of the kitchen with a sickening certainty that
I wouldn’t find it elsewhere. “It was there last night. It’s the main knife I use
to chop my fruit and veggies. I cleaned it after we closed last night and put it back
where it belongs.”
“Who has access to this kitchen area?” Albright asked.
“All of my employees,” I said with a shrug. “Is it . . . was it . . .” I couldn’t
manage to say the horrible thing I was thinking.
“Was it the knife used to kill Ginny?” Albright finished for me. I nodded. “I don’t
know. We didn’t find any knife at the scene but the techs are still sifting through
all the trash in the alley.” With his gloved hand he pulled the other knives from
the block, one at a time, examining each one. “Can you describe the missing one for
me?”
“It has a blade about eight inches long, two inches wide at the handle.”
“Serrated?”
“No.”
Albright sighed and turned his attention to the crime scene techs standing nearby.
“Bag these,” he said. “And the block, too.” Then he removed his gloves, took my arm,
and steered
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