The Old Blue Line: A Joanna Brady Novella (Joanna Brady Mysteries)

He sent a significant glance and an all-encompassing gesture around the bar, which was starting to fill up. A group of golfers—several foursomes, boisterous, loud, and fresh from some local course—had turned up and were busily making themselves at home by ordering drinks all around, wings, and platters of nachos.

 

“I already told you. My grandmother owned the Roundhouse, and she left it to me when she died. You may not realize this, but inheriting a restaurant isn’t what I’d call ‘landing on my feet.’ It’s called landing in a pile of work. The whole trick about running a restaurant is making it look easy. It isn’t. It’s like that duck gliding effortlessly across the water without anyone seeing that, below the surface, he’s paddling like crazy. By the way, that weekend in Vegas was my first weekend off—my first days off—in months.”

 

“At the time you went there, did you know Faith was living in Las Vegas?”

 

“I had no idea.”

 

I wouldn’t be surprised if my mother had known all about it. I think I mentioned earlier that she and Faith had always been chummy, and it chapped my butt that the two of them stayed friends, especially after what Faith did to me.

 

“You took your cell phone to Vegas?”

 

I noticed the sudden shift in direction. “Of course,” I answered.

 

“Did you use it?”

 

“Some, but on Saturday afternoon I noticed it was running out of battery power and realized I had forgotten the charger back here in Peoria. I called the restaurant, let them know that my cell phone was out of commission. I told them that if they needed to reach me, they’d have to call the Talisman or the people in charge of the convention. At the convention, they post messages on a bulletin board near the registration desk. After that, I shut my cell off and left it off until after I got back home.”

 

I’m not stupid. I could see clear as day where all this was going. Jamison thought I had shut off my phone so it wouldn’t ping anywhere near the crime scene. That’s how the cops are able to catch the occasional killer these days—by following the bad guy’s cell phone signals. That way they can place the crook at the scene of the crime without his ever having made a call.

 

“My phone records will bear that out,” I added.

 

“I’m sure they will. So did you use the phone in your room to make any calls?”

 

“No, not that I remember. Besides, who would I have called? Other than the people I met at the convention, I didn’t know anyone in Vegas.”

 

“What about the pay phone down by the swimming pool at the Talisman? Did you use that?”

 

“If there was a pay phone there, I didn’t notice, and I certainly didn’t use it.”

 

“Who all knew you were going to that particular convention?” This was the first time the other cop, Detective Shandrow, had asked a question.

 

“The people at the restaurant knew I was going to Vegas,” I corrected. “I doubt I mentioned anything to them about the convention. What I was doing in Vegas wasn’t any of their business. You know the old saying, ‘What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.’ ”

 

My attempt at humor fell flat, at least as far as Detective Shandrow was concerned. He grimaced. “So you’re saying that none of the people who work for you are aware that you’re building up to writing the great American novel?” His sarcasm was duly noted.

 

“It’s not something I talk about. People don’t like it when they think you’re standing with a foot in both worlds. They get nervous. I have a good crew working here at the restaurant, and I need to keep all of them.”

 

“Unless you decide to sell,” Jamison said.

 

That took me aback. The truth was, for months there had been considerable interest from a company hot to trot to build a hotel in order to cash in on Peoria’s burgeoning Spring Training gold mine. The developer, a guy named Jones, had bought up most of the real estate on either side of me, purchasing the buildings on the cheap from the landlords who had raised the rents enough that their longtime small business tenants—engaged in a life-or-death struggle with big box stores—could no longer afford to renew their leases. Their former landlords were only too happy to make a quick buck and go on to bigger and better things. Now, months later, I remained the sole holdout.

 

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