“He comes here every day?”
“The most regular customer we have.”
We gawked at the rut-bound Mr. D’Arcy.
“But I take it back,” Sabrina said, the booth’s vinyl squeaking at she turned back to face me. “There was one day he wasn’t here at all. About three weeks ago, I’d guess.” She hummed a tune. “Must have been a Friday, because the breakfast special was the Western omelet, that’s his favorite, and he wasn’t here. Cookie in there”—she tipped her head to the kitchen—“figured he must have died, but the next day he was back again, just like normal.”
“Did he say where he’d been?” I asked.
“Eat,” she commanded. It wasn’t until I was chewing that she answered my question. “He didn’t say word one about where he’d been. Just plopped himself down in that booth like he’d never been gone and didn’t unglue his eyes from that stupid computer for hours. Look at him. He’ll reach for his coffee without even looking. Does the same thing with food.”
But I wasn’t thinking about Mr. D’Arcy’s eating habits. “The Friday he was gone,” I said slowly. “Was that the day Stan Larabee was killed?”
She drummed her short fingernails on the table. “You know, I think it was.”
I suddenly felt a large, solid presence next to the table. We looked up and saw a glowering Gunnar Olson looming above. “You must need to talk to Minnie,” Sabrina said, sliding out of the booth. “What can I get you, Gunnie?”
“Coffee,” he growled, dropping into the seat she’d vacated. “And make it quick.”
“Keep your pants on.” She leaned over and whispered to me, “Give me the high sign if you need help with this guy.”
Gunnie? “Thanks, but I’m good.”
We sat there, listening to the occasional click of Bill D’Arcy’s keyboard, listening to the parents struggle to keep their toddlers in line. I listened to myself chew and swallow. Gunnar sat with his arms folded and stared out the front window.
When Sabrina returned with a carafe of coffee and a mug, she asked, “Anything else?” Gunnar sipped his coffee and glared at me. I said, “No, thanks, Sabrina.”
Gunnar waited until she was out of earshot before he pushed his coffee aside and leaned forward, his arms spread wide on the table, the better to intimidate me with. But that kind of domination attempt didn’t work on me. I wasn’t even five feet tall. Everyone was bigger than I was. It was something I was accustomed to and knew how to ignore.
“What did you hear?” he asked. “The other night, when you were eavesdropping. How much did you hear?”
I wanted to say, “Pretty much all of it,” but there was a reasonable chance that the man sitting across from me was a killer. What I needed was to be smart, and to be smart in such a clever way that he didn’t realize I was outsmarting him.
“I told you the truth. I fell in the water because I was trying to keep my cat from falling in.”
“Cats don’t fall,” he said flatly.
“And cats don’t like bread, either, but Eddie loves the stuff.”
“You named your cat Eddie?”
I shrugged.
For some reason, the idea of a cat called Eddie amused him. He snorted out a laugh. “Eddie. What a stupid name for a cat.” He snorted again, then leaned low across the table. “I didn’t kill Stan Larabee,” he said quietly.
I cut my cold sausage into bite-sized pieces. Speared one piece. “Okay.” I popped the bite into my mouth.
“Nothing wrong with a nice grudge between former business partners, is there? But I didn’t kill him.”
Since I was chewing, I held out a hand, palm up, and made a tell-me-more gesture with my fingers.
His nostrils flared as he breathed in and out, in and out. “Twenty years ago, when I was down in Florida for a business conference, a mutual friend introduced me to Larabee. He thought it was funny that I summered where Larabee had grown up. Real funny,” he said, making fists with his hands. “I’m laughing hard enough to hurt myself.”
I swallowed. “So, twenty years ago . . .”
“Yeah. Back then life was good for buying property in Florida, putting in some roads, slapping up modulars, and making a killing. Larabee said he’d come across this sweet property—the owner needed cash and was selling it for a song. Larabee said he was thinking about getting out of the development business, but if I wanted in, we could make a limited liability corporation, each put in half, each get half the profits.” His face was turning a deep shade of red.
“I take it things didn’t go like that?”
“Stan Larabee was a thief,” Gunnar said stonily. “We bought the property, laid out thousands for the engineering, laid out tens of thousands for the infrastructure—then when time came to sell lots, we got nothing but rumors of hidden limestone sinkholes about to cave in, toxic waste dumps, and contaminated water. Didn’t matter what we said, the word was out. Couldn’t sell a single lot.”
“Were there any sinkholes?”
“No!” he shouted, his face now almost purple. “We had geological reports up the wazoo. We had hazardous-materials guys declare the site clean. We had the health department sign off that the water was well within tolerances. It was fine!”
I hoped he wasn’t prone to heart attacks. “Then why the rumors?”
“Stan Larabee was behind it all.” Gunnar spoke through gritted teeth. “He said he was sorry it was turning out this way, said he’d buy back my share.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“Buy back my share for pennies on the dollar. Pennies!” His fist hit the table so hard even Bill D’Arcy looked up. “And you know what happened? The minute Larabee bought the property off me, the rumors disappeared. Vanished.” He flicked his fingers out in a magician-style move. “In the end he makes a bundle with barely more than half the investment he should have put into it. And what do I get? Nothing. Nothing!”
“Did you talk to an attorney?”
“What, you think I’m stupid? Of course I did. He said he’d be glad to take my money, but it’d be a waste. If Larabee did start all those rumors, it’d be a job and a half to prove it and even if I won, I’d probably end up spending more in lawyer fees than I’d recover.” He grabbed his coffee mug and took a hefty slug. “Still, I thought about it. Thought about it hard.”
I eyed him. “All that sounds like an excellent motive for murder.”
He stared back. “I have more money than I know what to do with. I hate to lose, is all. Sure, I was madder than a wet snake over the deal, but not mad enough to kill him. And two things. One, this was over and done with years ago. Two, I didn’t have a car that weekend. What was I going to do, hire Koyne to drive me on a murder gig?”
I blinked. “Mitchell Koyne?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
Mitchell kept turning up in the oddest of places. Mr. Koyne and I were going to have to have a chat. Soon.
I laid my knife and fork on the side of my plate. Added my wadded-up napkin to the pile and pushed it toward the edge of the table. Gunnar Olson had a nasty temper and he was a misogynist and a bully, but I wasn’t sure he was a murderer. Of course, I wasn’t sure I’d recognize a killer if I met one. They didn’t tend to wear labels.
“Say,” he said, “you didn’t hear what I said about my little spin at the casino, did you? No reason to tell the wife.” He tried a chuckle. “I mean, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Besides, she’s the worrying kind, and I don’t want her worried about nothing.”
If his grip on the handle of the coffee mug hadn’t been white-knuckled and if his other hand hadn’t been trembling, I might have believed him. But that, on top of his rapidly blinking eyes and his fast, short breaths . . . no. I didn’t believe a word of it.