If I Should Die_ A Novel of Suspense - Allison Brennan [64]
She smiled as she approached them. “What can I get for you fellas?”
“Two drafts,” Sean said.
Conversation resumed as soon as they were seated, though everyone’s attention seemed to be focused on them. Sean observed there were twice as many people tonight as yesterday. It was Friday, after the dinner hour, in a small town and the Lock & Barrel was the only nightlife for miles. Sean never would have survived growing up in a town like Spruce Lake.
The redhead placed the beers in front of them. Sean noticed two scars on her left forearm. Too high to be a suicide attempt, but definitely a knife attack.
“I haven’t seen you two before,” the bartender said. “Let me guess—Adam and Tim Hendrickson?”
“Half right,” Sean said.
“I’m Tim,” Tim acknowledged. “This is my friend Sean.”
She smiled brightly, but Sean sensed that she was observing them like specimens. She flirted, but not like Trina, the waitress. This woman was calculating; Sean saw it in her eyes, in the way she seemed attuned to everyone in the room, even though she looked right at him.
“I didn’t think this town was big enough for two bartenders,” Sean said.
“Reggie was feeling under the weather; I’m just helping out tonight.”
“And do you have a name?”
She extended her hand and smiled seductively. “Bobbie,” she said. She wore rings on nearly every finger; several diamonds and one large emerald stood out. If they were real—and they looked as though they were—she wore thousands of dollars on her hands. If fake, they were expensive fakes.
“Pleased to meet you.”
“I heard about your troubles, Tim. The whole town is talking. I’m so sorry.”
Tim shrugged. “Well, I really have no choice.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have to postpone the opening.”
She frowned dramatically, but Sean didn’t think she was a bit sorry. She looked as if she was playing a part and enjoying every minute of it. “That’s awful.”
“I thought most of the people here were opposed to the Spruce Lake Resort,” Sean said.
She shrugged. “I don’t really have an opinion.”
“Someone shot at me today,” Sean said, watching Bobbie closely.
“Really? Who?”
“Don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”
Bobbie’s neck muscles tightened—just briefly, but it was an interesting sign that she was irritated. “How?”
“I’m a private investigator. I’m pretty good at my job.”
“Oh! A private eye. Wow. Like Sam Spade?”
Sean noticed that Bobbie ignored everyone except him and Tim. He found it odd that Trina, not Bobbie, was filling orders. Bobbie was trying hard to sound like a ditz, but her eyes were too sharp and observant. A man in his midtwenties sat at the end of the bar observing the three of them, trying to be discreet, but Sean pegged him as security. Why did Bobbie need security?
He responded to her query. “Mostly computer work. Boring, really. Nothing like Thomas Magnum.”
She stared at him blankly. “Who?”
“From the television show, Magnum, P.I. You’re probably too young to remember—I’m too young to remember—but I caught the reruns.”
She frowned, a flash of anger in her eyes. Why? Because she didn’t know a television character?
“I don’t have time for TV,” she snapped and turned away, grabbing a rag from under the bar. “I gotta get back to work, boys,” she said as if they were the ones keeping her.
“Of course,” Sean said. She halfheartedly wiped down the bar, refilling a couple of drafts on the way without talking to anyone, until she got to the watchful guy at the end. She fixed him a Scotch and soda—light on the Scotch, Sean noted.
Bobbie was a nickname for Roberta. Was that sly woman Roberta Swain? Did she actually