betâcher boots it donât include no murder.â
âAny murder,â I said in a reflex blurt.
âWhatâd you say?â
âNothing important. Iâm glad to hear you wouldnât commit murder, Oscar.â
âYou better believe it, Mitch,â he said. âNow I better get back to the door. You enjoy your lunch then and donât worry about the check.â
I thanked Oscar for his time and for picking up the tab, and he walked away. I wanted to believe him, but the quick denial without an actual accusation left me unconvinced. But what the hellâthe walleye and the coleslaw were delicious and the price was right.
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* * *
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âHowâd it go at the Northern Exposure?â Al asked as we sipped our late afternoon coffee in the Daily Dispatch cafeteria.
I replayed my conversation with Oscar and explained my uncertainty about the truth of his denial. âHe got defensive real quick,â I said. âA little too quick.â
âSo you canât write him off as a suspect.â
âAfraid not. So how was your assignment?â
âBoring. Shot a grab-and-grin at City Hall with the mayor handing a plaque to the big-shot developer building that new condo tower on the East Side. The day wasnât a total loss, though.â
âHow so?â I asked.
âWhen I got back here, I had two e-mails from that woman I told you about. The one that hung around at the signing.â
âWillow?â
âYeah, Willow. Told me how much she loved the book and what a great photographer I am. Good for the old ego. I sent back a thank you note.â
âAlways nice to be appreciated,â I said. âYou canât have too many friends.â
âSheâs sexy, too,â Al said.
âThat makes it even more fun.â
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Chapter 8: Stonewalls and Willows
M y problem with alcohol began a dozen years ago when my wife and baby boy were killed in a collision with a jack-knifing eighteen-wheeler. I began pouring down the booze to blot out the pain but the drunken haze only increased the agony. I had sunk deep into an ever-darkening pit when Al and Carol persuaded me to go to rehab. Since then Iâve stayed dry with the help of an Alcoholics Anonymous group that meets within walking distance of my apartment every Monday night.
My most reliable crutch at AA is Jayne Halvorson, the mother of two teenage daughters who fled to St. Paul from an abusive husband in North Dakota. Jayne and I chat over a glass of ginger ale at a neighborhood bar called Herbieâs after every Monday night meeting. More often than not, Jayne can look at a problem that has me stymied and come up with a workable solution. For example, without her assistance (and insistence) I never would have pushed myself into a jewelry store to buy an engagement ring for Martha. The last time Iâd gone out on that limb, Iâd found the intended ring recipient between the sheets with an old high school boyfriend.
âYou didnât sound sincere tonight when you told us that everything was going well in your life,â Jayne said after the usual Herbieâs small talk.
âMost things are okay,â I said.
âAnd what things are not?â
âOnly one, really. The detective from the Falcon Heights PD. I canât get anything out of her for a story about Vinnie Lucianoâs murder. Not even a hint as to whether sheâs looking at a suspect or a person of interest. Normally, investigators will let out little scraps of information as the case develops, but this oneâs lips are clamped as tight as a pit bullâs jaws on a mailmanâs leg.â
âHave you tried schmoozing her with the old Mitch Mitchell charm?â Jayne said.
âIâve tried the âIâm your buddyâ smile, Iâve tried flattery, Iâve tried the old teamwork routine, Iâve tried asking her to lunch,â I said. âItâs like