CHAPTER 8

      At eleven fifteen someone pounded on the back door. I had everything like Joaquín always did. Fruit was cut and out, napkins and stirrers replenished. Glasses at the ready. I was ready, willing, and fingers and toes crossed hopefully able.

      One of the regulars, a man who’d ignored me up to this point, stood outside. “Why’s the door locked?” he asked as he breezed past me through the kitchen and into the bar. Vivi! She usually left the back door unlocked and regulars used it all the time. Easy enough for one of them to grab a channel knife on their way in or out. Heck, it didn’t even have to be a regular. Anyone could have slipped in and out unnoticed. Especially because the camera wasn’t working.

      The man slid into a seat midway between the doors that opened to the beach and the bar. His back to the wall. His Florida Gators hat tipped back. Another regular, a woman with gray, permed hair, who’d come in the front, sat opposite him on the other side of the bar. I grabbed a notebook and approached the woman first.

      “What can I help you with?” I asked.

      She looked askance at me. Her skin defined the term “leathery.” “Help me with?” There was a chuckle in her voice.

      Oops. The “help you with” came from working at the library. But before I could correct it and ask her what she’d like to drink, she was talking.

      “Well, a lot of things. My car needs vacuuming, my knee aches, and my grown kids won’t move out.” She paused. “Can you help me with any of that?”

      Never count out a librarian when you needed something. “You might try drinking a combination of apple cider vinegar, honey, and cinnamon for the aching knees.” Librarians had a lot of aches and pains from all the standing, sitting, and squatting that took place with finding and reshelving books. “I have a coupon for a free vacuuming with car wash I can give you. But you’re on your own with the kids. If a drink would help, I can handle that.” I hoped.

      She laughed. “I’ll take you up on that coupon. And a mimosa would be a great start. Thanks.”

      “One mimosa coming up.” That I could do. I’d attended many a brunch in Chicago, where all the mimosas you could drink were included in the price. I walked over to the man.

      “What can I get you to drink?”

      “No offers of help for me?” He looked dead serious.

      “It depends on what you need.”

      “I need a drink. Why else would I come in here?”

      I could think of a lot of reasons—to hang out with friends, to enjoy the view, to look at Joaquín. I kept my opinions to myself. “What would you like?”

      “I’ll have an old-fashioned.”

      I waited for him to go on, pen poised. I looked up when he didn’t say anything else. He stared at me. “An old-fashioned what?” I asked.

      “It’s a drink. An old-fashioned.” He said it slowly, like I wasn’t too bright. It seems like that had been happening a lot lately. “Where’s Vivi and Joaquín?”

      As if I knew. “Fishing and out getting things for Elwell’s memorial.” That sounded good. “I’ll get that drink for you.”

      I hurried behind the bar, grabbed my phone, and did a quick search of how to make an old-fashioned. I found a brief history, which I knew I should ignore but scanned quickly. I blame the librarian side of my personality. I’d been curious as a kid, to my detriment sometimes.

      The word “cocktail” dated back to 1776 and supposedly came about when a woman in New York ran out of wooden stirrers and grabbed the feather of a cock’s tail to use instead. Ack. That sounded disgusting. The old-fashioned was considered a classic drink, and there was some argument about whether fruit should be included and muddled, meaning you pressed the fresh ingredients—like herbs or fruit—against the sides or bottom of the glass to release the flavors. As much as I wanted to keep reading, I needed to skip ahead to the actual making instead of muddling along here.

      I found the lumps of sugar and dropped one into the bottom of a rocks glass, which I just learned was also called an old-fashioned glass. I studied the liquor—or spirits, as Joaquín called them—behind the bar. Instead of the usual shelving, Vivi had the liquor in various open-fronted, staggered wooden cabinets that gave the place a homey feel. I finally found the Angostura bitters, whatever they were, and crushed the sugar and bitters together as instructed. I added two ounces of whiskey and gave it a stir. Then I garnished, as directed, with a lemon peel twist, orange slice, and maraschino cherry. It looked pretty. I was quite proud of myself.

      I whipped together the mimosa, put both drinks on a tray, and delivered them, ladies first. The two customers lifted their drinks. I think I saw the man wink.

      “To Elwell. May he rest in peace,” the woman said.

      “Unlikely. But I’ll drink to that,” he said.

      Both took a drink and neither spit them out. Woo-hoo. Success. I wanted to hear whether they were going to say anything else about Elwell, so I started straightening some of the many pictures that lined the walls. Some were old advertisements. Lots of photos—many of which were black and white. Most didn’t need straightening. I turned my back to the customers in an attempt to look like I wasn’t eavesdropping.

      “Why don’t you think he’ll rest in peace?” she asked.

      “Too ornery. Caused too many problems while he was here.” He paused, maybe took a drink. “A man must have to pay up at some point.”

      I took a closer look at the photo in front of me. Black and white. A young Vivi and Elwell. They looked to be in their late teens, but sometimes I found it hard to tell how old people are in old photos. They stood on the beach in swimwear, arms slung around each other. Vivi’s head was thrown back, laughing. A young woman stood off to the side, arms crossed and glaring.

      “Well, aren’t you philosophical today, and you haven’t even finished your first drink of the day,” the woman said.

      “Who says this is my first drink?” the man replied.

      I turned to them. “This photo looks like Vivi and Elwell.” The woman got up and came over to me. The man just swiveled on his barstool and squinted.

      “That’s them,” he said. He turned back to his drink.

      “High school sweethearts,” the woman said. “They had a bad breakup while Vivi was in college.”

      “Really?” I asked. Could their argument—if it was them arguing—have had something to do with their past? More likely it had to do with him wearing that weird armadillo hat. I couldn’t be the only one who’d noticed it was scaring away customers.