Murder in Cormyr - Chet Williamson [31]
And so it transpired. I was afraid that Shortshanks would accuse me of leaving without paying, but I slipped out when his back was turned, thanks to my stealthy halfling blood, put the garments in my saddlebag, and came back into the inn, where I ordered a second drink.
I thought about what else I might do to gather more evidence, and it seemed it would be a good idea to try and determine who on my list of suspects was right-handed, and who was left, since it had been concluded that the killer struck with his right hand. First I observed the tables.
There was Grodoveth, who was looking fishier and fishier as the day had worn on. But he clasped his mug with his left hand, and put it down only to dig into a large venison steak with a fork, frequently bumping the constantly moving right hand of Tobald across the table. Grodoveth was a left-hander then, but I still didn't trust him.
As luck would have it, Barthelm came in several minutes later. He nodded at Tobald and coldly ignored Grodoveth. Nor did he acknowledge Rolf, who had come in when I was in the necessary. The old merchant went up to the service area at the end of the bar nearest the door and bade Shortshanks to infuse him a small pot of coffee, that black beverage brewed from crushed, charred beans from far Durpar. I've heard it refreshes the mind, but it's too rich for my poor purse.
As I watched Barthelm from the corner of my eye, I saw that everything he did, from paying the dwarf to pouring cream into his cup and lifting it, he did with his right hand. Barthelm drank two cups of the evil-smelling brew and left. Back to work, no doubt, getting ready for the bigwigs.
I watched Rolf then, and he seemed to be his old cantankerous self. Sour faced, he sat with both big hands wrapped around his mug, favoring neither one hand nor the other but drinking with both.
Then I remembered a trick Camber Fosrick had played in The Adventure of the Battledale Billhook to discover which hand a suspect favored. He had suddenly thrown a ball at the man, who had caught it with his left hand (a hand that, supposedly, he could not even use), proving him to be a killer. So I ordered from Shortshanks a small round nut cheese and waited until Rolf's attention was distracted.
He was sitting at the short end of the bar, several stools away from me. I called out, "Rolf!" and tossed the cheese toward him. His drinking must have slowed his reaction time, for although he looked up, he made no attempt to catch the cheese, which hit him squarely in the forehead and then fell into his mug, splashing him with ale.
Dead silence fell upon the Bold Bard, as all eyes went to the ale-sodden Rolf, who looked first at the cheese in his mug and then at me with a basilisk glare. The look demanded, if not my blood, at least an explanation.
"I, uh… I thought you might like some cheese," I said.
That apparently was not the explanation he was looking for. He stood up, came over to me, and showed me in no uncertain terms that he was indeed right-handed.
After I picked myself up off the floor, rubbing my aching jaw and checking with my tongue to see how many of my teeth had been loosened, he took another swipe at me, but the blow only grazed me, for Shortshanks had vaulted over the bar with his mallet in hand. The dwarf grabbed the back of Rolf's trousers and lifted, throwing Rolf off balance and propelling him straight ahead toward the front door. Rolf's head smashed the door open, and the roofer's body followed it through, given extra impetus by the flat of the mallet laid to his posterior.
"Come back when ye're in not such a dark mood!" Shortshanks cried. "This is a happy tavern!" Then without a smile he pulled shut the door and glared at me. "And you-don't be so free with your cheese!"
The dwarf reacted not at all to the howls of laughter from his clientele. He simply went behind the bar and stowed his mallet, and I continued to massage my sore jaw. Rolf, I thought, was a person who would