Free The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle by Laura Disilverio

get there?”
    â€œGood question.”
    We were silent for a beat, and then we said together, “We should go down.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    I made Derek take the elevator, since I was afraid he would tumble down the stairs. When the doors opened on the ground level, we found all the lights on and the pub swarming with uniformed police officers. It looked like chaos, but I suspected there was a plan to their to-ing and fro-ing. Hart strode into the bar from the kitchen, face grim. When he spotted me in my too-big shorts and Derek in his lime green slacks, his face lightened momentarily. “Good thing the photographers already left—”
    A flash interrupted him and proved him wrong. Derek and I flung our hands up to shield our eyes and a reporter I didn’t know said, “Derek, how will a murder in your pub affect business?”
    With a head jerk, Hart summoned a uniformed officer, who hauled the reporter outside, still shouting questions. With a beckoning hand, Hart fetched an officer, who took Derek’s elbow and asked him to “Come with me, sir.” She led him toward a booth on the far side of the bar.
    When I started to follow, Hart’s hand on my arm stopped me. “We need to keep you separate until we’ve interviewed both of you.”
    My eyes widened. “You think—?” Of course he thought we were potential suspects. I’d found the body—which I knew from reading crime fiction made me an automatic suspect—and Derek was the deadman’s business partner. I swallowed hard. “Was he murdered?”
    â€œWell, I don’t think he flung himself into the Dumpster and bashed himself over the head,” Hart said. “How did you come to find him?”
    â€œKolby found him,” I said automatically as Hart pulled out a small notebook. “His son. I heard him screaming and went to see what was up.”
    â€œKolby’s the kid in the kitchen?”
    I nodded. Almost before I realized I was thirsty, Hart said, “Let me get you some water.” He fetched a glass from behind the bar and returned to me. While I drank it, he led me up the stairs to the pool-playing area, which was deserted. Balls and cue sticks lay on the green felt tables. We sat at a high top with two stools. Sticky rings decorated it from the mugs that had sat there earlier. A collection of glassware covered the short bar’s counters, ready for washing. I wondered vaguely who had bused all the tables.
    â€œNow,” Hart said, “when was the last time you saw Gordon Marsh alive?”
    I thought back and realized I hadn’t seen Gordon after we’d opened the pub doors to kick off the grand opening. I told Hart that. “He saw the WOSC women marching across the lot with their banner, said he needed a smoke, and disappeared.” I was thankful Hart had been at the party so I didn’t have to explain what WOSC was. “I don’t think I saw him after that, not even outside when we all evacuated for the fire.” If I’d missed Gordon earlier, gone to look for him, might he have survived?
    My head dropped. I didn’t feel that it was my fault, precisely, because I couldn’t possibly have foreseen or prevented the night’s disasters, but I still felt low. Hart’s hand landed on my shoulder, heavy and comforting. “None of it was your fault,” he said. “It was a great party, until . . .”
    â€œYeah. Right up until the women’s toilets got clogged, the kitchen caught on fire, people started talking about rodents in the brewing vats, and my brother’s partner got killed.” I felt guilty for lumping Gordon’s death in with the other events and started to apologize.
    Hart’s brown eyes narrowed. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “so many things going wrong almost sounds like sabotage.”
    My mouth fell open and I snapped it closed.