Read Online The Price of Malice by Archer Mayor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Archer Mayor
Tags: Mystery
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right place at the right time. Opened just recently, it was jammed nightly with appreciative patrons, drawn by the music, the crowd, and, of course, the need to be seen where it counted, for some reason.
Lyn had been a bookkeeper for years, as well as a bartender. She and Joe had met in Gloucester, where he’d been on a case. The attraction had been mutual, if initially chaste. Indeed, by the time she found a bar up for sale in Brattleboro, he’d placed her in a backlog of very pleasant but distant memories. Her reappearance in his life had been surprising and extraordinarily welcome. Right place, right time.
He climbed the concrete steps to the bar’s carved wooden door, and left the swelter of the darkened street for the air-conditioned bedlam of a night spot in full swing.
Joe was no lover of bars. He barely drank, found no pleasure in drunks, disliked loud music, and hated crowds. Still, he had a regular seat here, when Lyn was on duty, which she was several times a week, both to support her staff and to keep an eye on the business.Many a night, Joe would park himself on the last bar stool against the wall and nurse a succession of Cokes as he watched her ply her trade, impressed by her natural ease with people—all the more so since he knew her to be an introvert at heart, happiest alone or in his company. Until recently.
“Joe,” came a woman’s voice. “You want the usual?”
He looked over the tops of the heads lined up at the bar and saw a young woman’s face glimpsing out from between them—the night’s barkeep, Holly.
“Not tonight, thanks—was hoping to catch Lyn.”
Holly’s brow furrowed. “You been away?” She gestured to the far end of the bar, where they could have some semblance of privacy. He squeezed in between his usual perch, now occupied, and the wall.
“Kind of,” he told her. “Why do you ask?”
She was leaning far over the bar, with her ear almost pressed against his mouth. She now straightened enough to face him and shout, just inches away, “She left for home, about three, four days ago. Family emergency.”
“She all right?”
“Yeah, yeah. She’s fine. It’s her mom, I think. Her brother, Steve, called. Is she all right, by the way?”
He was able to hear about every other word. “All right?”
“Yeah,” Holly spoke louder. “She’s been really weird lately. I mean, before the phone call from home.”
“A different piece of bad news,” Joe explained vaguely.
Holly knew better than to ask. “Well. I hope it gets better. We miss her. Give her our love when you see her. You going there now?”
He considered the idea. He hadn’t thought of it—merely rued hisbad luck when he’d heard she’d left town. But for a man with his needs, and who often went sleepless for days, a night of travel to and from Gloucester sounded feasible and possibly restorative. To hell with her “space,” he suddenly thought.
“Yeah,” he yelled. “I think I am.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
O n the map, Cape Ann, of which Gloucester is the dominant town, forms the top of a capital letter “C” that cradles Boston Harbor in its embrace, with the bottom arm being the Hull/Cohasset area. As a result, where it isn’t a working-class fishing port, Gloucester is a Boston playground, hemmed in by Martha Stewart mansions and country clubs. During the summer, during the day, and certainly during weekends, it is a recreational madhouse, filled with Type-A urban-ites charging through their supposed time off like a bunch of drunks at a liquor store sale. Not fun to watch, and even worse to experience, especially in heavy, SUV-clogged traffic.
Fortunately, Joe had none of that to concern him. He drove through the middle of the night with his windows down, his air conditioner off, and his radio barely murmuring—virtually the only car visible on the entire 150-mile trip. As he crossed the Annisquam River onto the cape itself, swung around the Grant traffic circle, and headed south on
Lyn had been a bookkeeper for years, as well as a bartender. She and Joe had met in Gloucester, where he’d been on a case. The attraction had been mutual, if initially chaste. Indeed, by the time she found a bar up for sale in Brattleboro, he’d placed her in a backlog of very pleasant but distant memories. Her reappearance in his life had been surprising and extraordinarily welcome. Right place, right time.
He climbed the concrete steps to the bar’s carved wooden door, and left the swelter of the darkened street for the air-conditioned bedlam of a night spot in full swing.
Joe was no lover of bars. He barely drank, found no pleasure in drunks, disliked loud music, and hated crowds. Still, he had a regular seat here, when Lyn was on duty, which she was several times a week, both to support her staff and to keep an eye on the business.Many a night, Joe would park himself on the last bar stool against the wall and nurse a succession of Cokes as he watched her ply her trade, impressed by her natural ease with people—all the more so since he knew her to be an introvert at heart, happiest alone or in his company. Until recently.
“Joe,” came a woman’s voice. “You want the usual?”
He looked over the tops of the heads lined up at the bar and saw a young woman’s face glimpsing out from between them—the night’s barkeep, Holly.
“Not tonight, thanks—was hoping to catch Lyn.”
Holly’s brow furrowed. “You been away?” She gestured to the far end of the bar, where they could have some semblance of privacy. He squeezed in between his usual perch, now occupied, and the wall.
“Kind of,” he told her. “Why do you ask?”
She was leaning far over the bar, with her ear almost pressed against his mouth. She now straightened enough to face him and shout, just inches away, “She left for home, about three, four days ago. Family emergency.”
“She all right?”
“Yeah, yeah. She’s fine. It’s her mom, I think. Her brother, Steve, called. Is she all right, by the way?”
He was able to hear about every other word. “All right?”
“Yeah,” Holly spoke louder. “She’s been really weird lately. I mean, before the phone call from home.”
“A different piece of bad news,” Joe explained vaguely.
Holly knew better than to ask. “Well. I hope it gets better. We miss her. Give her our love when you see her. You going there now?”
He considered the idea. He hadn’t thought of it—merely rued hisbad luck when he’d heard she’d left town. But for a man with his needs, and who often went sleepless for days, a night of travel to and from Gloucester sounded feasible and possibly restorative. To hell with her “space,” he suddenly thought.
“Yeah,” he yelled. “I think I am.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
O n the map, Cape Ann, of which Gloucester is the dominant town, forms the top of a capital letter “C” that cradles Boston Harbor in its embrace, with the bottom arm being the Hull/Cohasset area. As a result, where it isn’t a working-class fishing port, Gloucester is a Boston playground, hemmed in by Martha Stewart mansions and country clubs. During the summer, during the day, and certainly during weekends, it is a recreational madhouse, filled with Type-A urban-ites charging through their supposed time off like a bunch of drunks at a liquor store sale. Not fun to watch, and even worse to experience, especially in heavy, SUV-clogged traffic.
Fortunately, Joe had none of that to concern him. He drove through the middle of the night with his windows down, his air conditioner off, and his radio barely murmuring—virtually the only car visible on the entire 150-mile trip. As he crossed the Annisquam River onto the cape itself, swung around the Grant traffic circle, and headed south on
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