Free Irish Stewed by Kylie Logan

myself and the leopard-print top I’d worn that day with black pants.
    There were narrow windows at ground level and shelving along every one of those walls. The shelves were mostly empty and there were boxes and discarded restaurant equipment here and there on the floor. Most of it looked as if it had spent the better part of my lifetime right where we found it. I skirted a coffee urn and a piece of copper tubing that had been dropped nearby and made my way over to the deeper shadows along the far wall. Just as I suspected there would be, there was a stairway there, and at the top of it, a door that led to the outside. The window in the center of the door was broken.
    “That’s got to be how he got in,” Declan said. “And don’t think Gus didn’t notice it. I’m sure they took pictures, and see”—he pointed to smudges on the wall—“they dusted for prints down here, too. Owen doesn’t have the brains God gave a goat. He’d never think to wear gloves. I have no doubt some of those prints belong to him. With that bit of information, Gus will have no problem making a case for Owen leaving here, going upstairs, and killing Jack.”
    “Really?” I looked at him long and hard and when that didn’t work, I pointed back toward the stairway where we’d come down. “You think he really broke into the basement, started taking the copper, left it where he dropped it, then broke into the back door upstairs so that he could kill Jack Lancer? That seems awfully complicated.”
    “Like I said, Owen’s not the brightest bulb in the box. Maybe he just came up the basement steps and—”
    “Did you see that old umbrella stand in front of the door that leads down to the basement from the kitchen? No way Owen opened the door from this side with that thing in front of it.”
    “Unless he put it back when he was done.”
    “From this side of the door?”
    “You’re right.” Declan pulled out his phone and headed back to the stairway. Upstairs, he slid the umbrella stand back where we’d found it and took a few photos.
    “You’ll sign an affidavit, right? I mean, if Gus asks. You’ll say that the umbrella stand was—”
    “Right there. Right where you just put it. Yes, of course. When we came in, that’s exactly where it was.”
    “Great!” He sent the pictures he’d just taken over to Gus Oberlin and while he was at it, I strolled back into the restaurant.
    The first thing I did was swipe a doily off the closest shelf where it shared space with a doll dressed in Victorian clothing.
    Too many knickknacks and too little ambience, and a menu that if what Declan had read to me about burgers and rice pudding meant anything, lacked not only imagination but any food actually worth eating.
    And none of it mattered, I reminded myself, dropping into the nearest chair.
    Because I was staying until Sophie was better and then I was gone.
    Where?
    I had no idea, but I knew it wasn’t going to be Hubbard, Ohio.
    Or the Terminal at the Tracks.
    As far as I could see, the restaurant was as terminal as its most famous customer.

Chapter 6
    W hen I heard a sharp rap on the front door, I hurried through the restaurant and into the waiting area.
    Face pressed to the glass.
    Beady blue eyes.
    Scrunched-up nose.
    I might not know local news, but I’d recognize Kim Kline anywhere.
    Apparently, so would Declan.
    Though I hadn’t realized he’d followed me, he reached around me, yanked open the door, and barked, “Ms. Inwood has no comment.”
    Really?
    I wedged myself between Declan, the door, and Kim, who had retreated and was toeing the line between the front walk and the restaurant. “I can tell her that myself,” I grumbled, before I turned to the reporter and said, “Ms. Inwood has no comment.”
    “But—”
    Whatever she was going to say, I cut off Kim when I shut the door.
    “I don’t need a keeper,” I said, and I marched through the waiting area and back into the restaurant. If Declan and I were going to go at