At the bottom of the stairs that led into the restaurant, Fran straightened up and stared through the front room into the almost empty dining room. “I think they’ll find room for us,” she had said in her typical dry way.
Unlike the Caswells and the Bennetts, I’d known the Walkers all my life. Barry Walker had run the art supplies and frame store on Main Street since before I was born.
That evening, Barry had been, as always, shaggy and shambling. He was quite round, had a bald pate, and wore his sticky-outy gray hair in a style I always thought of as “a half Bozo.” Fran, her flyaway hair tucked into an unsuccessful bun, looked exhausted. Even in the low light of the restaurant, the lines beneath her eyes were like caverns.
I had hung up their coats and prepared to lead the Walkers to a table in the center of the dining room when the front door opened and another couple arrived.
“We’re the Smiths,” the man had said. “We have a reservation. Sorry we’re late. The weather’s so bad, I wasn’t sure we should come.”
By the time I’d greeted the Smiths, the Walkers had taken a booth in the third corner of the dining room.
“Welcome to Gus’s Too. Let me seat you.” I smiled my most gracious hostess smile.
“No, dear,” Mrs. Smith had answered. “We’ll take care of it.” They had walked into the room, nodding to the Caswells and the Bennetts as they did, though not to the Walkers. Neither the Caswells nor the Bennetts acknowledged them. In fact, I was pretty sure I saw Caroline Caswell lean forward to study her wineglass in order to avoid the greeting. The Smiths had seated themselves in the remaining unoccupied corner booth. I had four couples seated as far from one another as Gus’s dining room allowed.
“You’re sure about that?” Binder said when I relayed this. “They deliberately sat far away from one another?”
“They did. What I’m not sure about is why they did it. I didn’t think much about it at the time. I thought it was an example of the bus seat rule.”
“The bus seat rule?” Flynn pulled his head up from his notes.
“From high school chemistry. Electrons fill up all the empty orbits around the nucleus before they start pairing up. Just like when you get on a bus, you head for an empty row, if there is one, before you take a seat with another passenger.”
The cops still looked puzzled, so I tried again. “You know, it’s like when guys line up at urinals—”
“Got it.” Binder cut me off.
“Or so I’m told,” I added. “I assumed the couples wanted to sit as far apart to have as much privacy as possible. In any case, I didn’t have much time to think about it.”
I’d taken drink orders from the Walkers and the Smiths and returned to the bar. The stranger sat there quietly, nursing his bourbon. I asked if he was ready to order.
“Can I just get a burger or something?” he asked.
While planning the restaurant, there’d been long menu discussions among Gus, Chris, and me. All afternoon, Gus served burgers, along with hot dogs, grilled cheese, lobster rolls, and fried clams. He was vehement he wanted something different for the restaurant at night. Chris and I agreed.
We’d settled on our limited menu: two appetizers, three entrees—meat, fish, and poultry—and two desserts. But would we grill a burger if someone asked? We decided, no, for now. Chris would be crazy busy in the kitchen without being a short order cook too.
“What did the victim eat?” Binder’s question brought me out of my mental digression.
“Pea soup.”
“That’s all?” Flynn pressed.
“There were croutons in the soup, and I put a basket of rolls on the bar. I can’t remember if he ate one.”
“Did anyone else order the soup?” Binder asked.
“Quite a few people.” The foggy, icy night made it an attractive option. “Barry Walker and Caroline Caswell ate it as their starter. Deborah Bennett had it, along with a salad, as her dinner.”
“Excuse me.” Binder moved out of the booth, jabbing at his cell phone as he went. Flynn got very interested in something in his notebook, and I fussed with the ketchup container on the table so we could avoid talking to one another, or looking at one another for that matter, while Binder was gone. When he returned, he said, “The crime scene techs will be back in a little while to take the soup for analysis.”
Unconsciously, my gaze drifted toward the walk-in and its crisscross of crime scene tape. “But I thought the ME found an injection site.”
“She did. But unless our victim was a drug addict, why would a healthy adult man let someone inject him? Perhaps he was subdued in some way. Slowed down, docile, or confused. How much of the Wild Turkey did he drink?”
I thought back, reconstructing the evening. “Three. Doubles.” I hesitated. “I’m pretty sure.”
“If he arrived at seven thirty and left at ten, as you believe, that’s what—six ounces over two and a half hours. He was probably impaired but not enough to let someone shoot him up, unless he wanted it. We’ll have the techs take the Wild Turkey. Did he have anything else to drink?”
“Water.”