Free A Catered St. Patrick's Day by Isis Crawford

place—since most of the other bars in Longely wouldn’t let them through the front door—as well as for the fact that Brandon could be relied upon to spot them a couple of bucks now and then when things got really tight.
    “My heroines,” Brandon called out as Libby and Bernie sat down on the bar stools near the window. He’d been restocking in preparation for the evening rush and had seen their reflections in the mirror hanging over the back shelves when they’d entered. He went over to the cooler and got them both bottles of root beer.
    “Good stuff,” he said, pushing the bottles across the counter after he’d opened them. “Artisan.”
    “Be still my heart. What did they do?” Bernie asked. “Go out and collect the roots?”
    “Yes, and they were wearing capes and carrying willow baskets when they did it,” Brandon told her. “Unless you want something a little harder. I figured it was too early for anything else, but I could be wrong.”
    “You? Never,” Bernie said in mock horror.
    “Let’s not exaggerate.” Brandon put a bowl full of unshelled peanuts between Bernie and Libby. “It has happened once or twice.”
    “Maybe even three times,” Bernie said teasingly. “No. This will be fine, thank you very much. Nice bottle,” Bernie said, picking it up and studying it before putting it back down. “Old fashioned.”
    “That’s the idea,” Brandon told her.
    “You know,” she said, “back in the old days root beer had a kick.”
    Brandon leered. “So do I.”
    Bernie took a sip from the bottle. “Are you comparing yourself to a bottle of root beer?”
    Brandon wagged his eyebrows. “I’m much better than that. If you want I’ll prove it to you.”
    “Thanks, but I think I’ll have to take a rain check on that,” Bernie told him. “We’re here on business.”
    Brandon put his hands to his heart. “I’m crushed,” he said.
    “That’ll be the day,” Bernie told him.
    “You don’t think I’m crushable?” Brandon declared. “Do I not bleed when you prick me ...?”
    “Enough,” Bernie cried, holding up her hand. “No mangled Shakespeare, please.”
    Brandon sniffed. “If you feel that way, fine, but I’ll have you know I was in Macbeth in college.”
    “Yeah. In the stage crew. Don’t even pretend that your feelings are hurt,” Bernie told him.
    Brandon smiled. He put his elbows on the bar and leaned in toward Bernie and Libby. “So I’m just guessing here, but I take it I owe the pleasure of your visit to Mike Sweeney’s unfortunate demise? Although I have to say, if you’re a drunk, maybe that’s the way to go.”
    “I don’t know about that,” Libby said. “I think his death falls under the ‘be careful what you wish for’ category.”
    “It’s probably not a good way to die,” Brandon conceded. “Drowning is drowning. They ran the story on the news earlier.”
    “Yeah, I saw it,” Bernie said. “They gave it a lot of play.”
    “Hometown boy kills hometown boy. Pretty unusual stuff up around here.” Brandon stifled a yawn. “Sorry. I have to start getting to bed earlier. How’s the investigation going?”
    Bernie nodded. “Slowly. Very slowly.”
    “I’ve got to say I’m a little surprised. Duncan was never one of your ...”
    “Biggest fans?” Bernie asked, finishing Brandon’s sentence.
    “Exactly,” Brandon said.
    “Duncan didn’t hire us,” Libby said.
    “So who did?” Brandon asked.
    Libby took a sip of her root beer. It was surprisingly good. No. It was great. She took another sip and thought about the old soda fountain on Main Street, and that got her wondering about whether or not they should serve root beer floats in the summer. She thought it would be easy enough to do. Maybe they could even make and sell their own ice cream. She’d have to remember to talk to Bernie about that. But that was for later. Right now she had more pressing concerns—like the Sweeney investigation.
    “Bree hired us,” she told Brandon,