Page 17 of Wham Line (The Last Picks #10)

Bobby tried CPR. The ambulance came. Dairek—that is, Deputy Landby—came.

And none of it mattered, because Sparkie Sanchez was dead.

Dairek, who had all the grace and charm of chewing gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe, started bossing people around.

To be fair, he had an impossible job—simultaneously trying to keep his witnesses from disappearing while also protecting a crime scene until the medical examiner and the sheriff arrived.

But it was painful to watch Dairek bumble through the whole affair while bellowing things like “Hey, you!” and “Get away from there!” and “I swear to God, I’ll slap a pair of cuffs on you. ”

Bobby lasted about five minutes before he jumped in, and after that, it got better.

I watched him as he worked. The fatigue showed in little ways—the burnt bronze of his eyes was duller than usual, and his reactions were microseconds slower than normal.

Among other things, Bobby Mai was the master of compartmentalization, and he used work to distract himself when he was feeling overwhelmed emotionally.

But was he feeling overwhelmed?

I mean, he had to be.

Right?

The night before. Bobby rolling onto his side. His back toward me like a wall.

He was hurt. He was grieving. Obviously. Of course. And he’d be the first one to admit that he had trouble expressing his emotions, especially when they got too big, when he started to feel like he was losing control.

So, it all made sense. If someone had asked me how I thought Bobby would handle a tragedy, I would have said exactly like this.

Which didn’t help at all with the fact that I felt like somehow I’d done something wrong. Or maybe better said, I hadn’t done the right thing. Whatever he’d needed me to do, I’d dropped the ball. Or maybe I’d done something I wasn’t supposed to do.

Because if I had done the right thing…what? What would be different?

I didn’t know. It wasn’t like I expected Bobby to sob uncontrollably for days. But maybe some touching, some cuddles. Bobby had so many feelings, and his favorite way to share them was through physical contact. A hug. Or simply his hand finding mine.

Of course, that wasn’t Bobby’s responsibility. Bobby was grieving. I needed to be the one initiating. I needed to be the one reaching out—literally and metaphorically.

The conclusion probably would have been obvious to anyone else, but since I had the relationship skills of—to borrow Keme’s favorite word—a donkey, I was kind of proud of myself for figuring it out.

Now that I had that settled, I could watch him work—he was shuffling an indignant blue-hair away from her platter of coconut shrimp—and enjoy the familiar sights of Bobby doing what he did best: being kind and firm and literally the best deputy in the history of the world, even though this lady was really mad about her shrimp.

The fish and chips.

The thought popped into my head.

My fish and chips.

Cold sweat made my underarms clammy. The voices in the room dropped away to nothing and then swelled until they were too loud.

That wasn’t possible, I told myself. There was no way. This wasn’t some—some Agatha Christie novel. This was the twenty-first century. This was an upscale restaurant. This was Hastings Rock, for heaven’s sake. People just didn’t get poisoned.

Except.

It was a restaurant owned by a potential suspect in another murder. Someone who had a great deal to gain by her husband’s death, someone with anger issues, someone who had access to the food.

I shook my head at myself, the gesture reactive, instinctive, an automatic no.

It had to have been a heart attack. Or a stroke. Or some other, equally accidental and unexpected death. People died like that all the time. They bent over to pick up the paper, or they twisted the wrong way, or they tried to lift a heavy TV.

Maybe I was thinking of back pain.

But it did happen. People could die from all sorts of things. All the time. It was basically one of the foundational rules of human existence.

On the other hand, my brain suggested, you’re investigating the murder of a restaurateur, and everyone around him has some connection to the food industry. Poison might not be too much of a stretch.

I found myself moving through the crowded dining room toward the bar.

Clothing whispered against me as I brushed against winter coats and heavy jackets, the different textures brushing the back of my hands—cool, slick polyester; the nap of microfiber; ruffled faux fur.

The bartender had dark hair spiked up in front and the kind of nice guy face that wasn’t quite the same thing as handsome.

I thought I’d seen him at the Otter Slide once or twice.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Dash Dane. Are you the bartender?”

His eyes widened, and he said a word you can’t say in church.

“Uh—” I began.

“No way,” he said. “Is this a murder?”

Around us, ears pricked up, and a little vibration worked its way through the crowd.

I lowered my voice. “Okay, well, I don’t know about that—”

“That’s insane !”

“Again, not really sure—”

“What happened? Who did it?” Panic flashed across his face. “It wasn’t me!”

A matronly woman who had donned earmuffs for the occasion was watching us with beady bird eyes. Two young women were whispering to each other. An old man who, if he’d had a mustache, would have reminded me of a walrus was leaning toward us; he’d overextended himself and was about to topple.

“This town,” I said under my breath. In a slightly strained voice, I added, “Can we talk over there? In private?”

The bartender didn’t look too sure about that, but he let me lead him away from the crowd. We ended up near one of the sun-filled windows giving onto the ocean, where the water was restless and tipped with gray teeth.

“This place is cursed,” the bartender said. “Two deaths? That’s got to be a ghost, right?”

“Ghosts aren’t really my area of expertise. I wanted to ask you about the woman who died, Sparkie. Did you know her?”

He shook his head. “We’ve only been open a couple of days. Today’s the first day I saw her.”

“You weren’t working last night?”

Another shake of the head.

“Let’s start at the beginning. When she came in, was she alone?”

The bartender screwed up his face in concentration. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“Okay—”

“But not for long. I remember I was mixing a drink when she sat down, and then I went over to help her. But by then, a guy was sitting with her, and they were talking. She waved me away.”

“Older guy? The one she was arguing with, the one with the bristly hair?”

“That’s him.”

“Did you hear what they were arguing about?”

“Nah. It’s been busy today.”

Another thought occurred to me. “Do you think someone sitting next to them might have heard?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “It was loud, and they were talking pretty quietly. The only times I heard them were when she raised her voice, and it wasn’t much.”

“All right. When did she finally order her drink?”

“After that guy left.”

“You’re sure?”

The bartender nodded. “I checked on her a couple of times, but she was still talking to him, all intense-like. Then, when he left, she wanted me to get her a drink right away.”

“What did she have?”

“Uh, a negroni, I think. Definitely a cocktail.”

“Do you remember if any of the bottles looked tampered with?”

He gave me that wide-eyed look again.

“Never mind,” I said. “What about food? Did she have anything to eat?”

“Yeah, fish and chips.”

“Before that?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, we put out bar mix, so maybe?”

I shook my head at that without meaning to.

“There you are,” Bobby said. He came across the dining room toward us. “You’re the bartender?”

The man nodded.

“Sheriff wants to talk to you. She’s using the manager’s office; do you know where that is?”

He gave another nod and said, “Listen, if it is a murder, is there, like, a reward if I help you catch the killer?”

“No,” Bobby said.

With a final, disappointed nod, the bartender slunk away.

“Are you okay?” Bobby asked.

“Yeah, fine. You?”

“Okay.” But he didn’t look okay. His breathing sounded higher and thinner than it should have, and tiny drops of sweat beaded at his hairline. He gauged my look and tried for a light tone. “I think you were right; I need to eat something.”

“Uh, yeah, but maybe not here.” I glanced around; even though we were removed from the throng of patrons, I lowered my voice. “Bobby, I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think someone might have poisoned Sparkie.”

It tells you a lot about Bobby that all he said was “Why?”

“Well, I don’t know. Because we’re in Talmage’s restaurant.

And this whole murder has somehow revolved around food and restaurants and chefs.

And Sparkie was arguing with Larry about something, and I’d bet dollars to donuts it was about Mal’s death.

Also, the fact that she suddenly collapsed and died, even though she looked perfectly healthy, and I know it could have been a heart attack or a stroke or whatever, but still . ”

The sweat at Bobby’s hairline was beginning to roll down his face. “Right.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? Sit down.”

To my surprise, Bobby let me bully him into a chair. “So, you think Talmage poisoned her?”

“Maybe. But not necessarily. It might have been Larry, but I don’t see how. She didn’t eat or drink anything while he was there—that’s what the bartender told me. Or it might have been Jethro; he was sneaking around here too.”

Rubbing his chest, Bobby said, “Why?”

“See, that’s the thing. I’m not even sure Sparkie was the target.

I think maybe—I think maybe someone was trying to poison us.

Nalini got confused and took our food to Sparkie.

She ate the fish and chips that were supposed to come to me.

I think somebody knows we’re trying to help Indira, and—Bobby? ”

He was touching his cheek, probing gently. His breathing was shallow and labored, and when he spoke, he sounded confused, and the words were thick and almost unintelligible, like he’d been shot full of Novocain. “My face feels funny.”

Bobby giving Sparkie CPR.

Bobby’s mouth on Sparkie’s mouth.

“Sheriff!” I shouted. “Somebody get the sheriff!” I took Bobby’s head in my hands. “You’re going to be okay. Just keep breathing.”

Faster than I could believe, the sheriff was there next to me. “What—”

“He needs a hospital right now. He’s been poisoned.”