CHAPTER 8

"There's nothing," Murdoch was telling Julia later that afternoon. His wife was elbows-deep into a postmortem and he was perched on a chair, his jacket set over the back of it, watching her work. "I've been all over the records George managed to procure on Parkington Whiskey. No other altercations between Martin or any of the other workers."

"That gives him a motive to kill Brendan Walsh-apparently he was the only one he had an issue with. Though by his own account he started the fight," Julia said, removing the stomach from the body on the table. "Perhaps the hatchet wasn't as buried as he makes it out to be."

"Maybe," Murdoch mused. "It is interesting…none of the other violations of safety protocols at Parkington Whiskey are anything that Parkington would want to sweep under the rug or be so belligerent about." The detective shook his head. "I'd love to convict him on nothing more than being an unsympathetic louse."

"Maybe he just doesn't like you," Julia offered as she studied the stomach contents of the victim on the table.

Murdoch's eyes widened. "I'll have you know," he informed her, "I happen to be a very amiable man."

Julia laughed and she looked up over the organ in her hands. "Oh William, that doesn't mean everyone is going to just spill their secrets to you," she said. "When has that ever actually worked for you in an interrogation?"

"Once," he said seriously, making his wife chuckle harder. "So if the animosity between Martin and Walsh was a one-time deal, and Parkington has nothing to hide…then we return back to Connor O'Neill."

"And if they were indeed arguing over something nefarious with Mr. Walsh's wife, that would explain why he didn't tell you about the fight at the pub," Julia added. She sampled some of the stomach contents into a syringe and looked at her husband. "Care to guess on cause of death?"

Murdoch smiled as he stood up to join her. "I'll leave that to you," he told her, kissing her on the cheek. "Don't stay too late," he added, as he picked up his jacket and made for the door.

Julia snorted. "Me stay late," she said to the body on the table. "That's rich, isn't it."

George Crabtree left Parkington Whiskey that evening slightly dejected. In his heart, he knew that it was going to take more than a day to ingrain himself with the crew at the distillery, time to build trust and listen for loose lips, but he'd clocked out with little more than sore arms to show for his efforts that day. Most of his inquiries (phrased innocently enough as he played the inexperienced man to the hilt) had been met with silence, glares and insults in more than one language.

The plaza was mostly empty, save for a few stragglers taking their time. George didn't see his three new Irish friends anywhere, they must have lit out the moment they'd punched their cards. He also didn't see Alexander Martin anywhere, and he was sure that Henry Parkington made his way home through different means than his own two feet.

George turned on Parliament, headed for his boarding house. Halfway home, something told him to stop, and George whirled, expecting to see someone behind him.

No one was there. Fumes must be gettin' to you, he thought to himself, and turned forward again. He made it home without incident, but couldn't shake the feeling that he'd been followed. Perhaps my questions touched a nerve somewhere after all.

He was about to close the door to his apartment when a hand snaked through the open door and shoved it open, sending George staggering backwards. The intruder closed the door behind him, but George was ready for him, his pistol from the bedside table pointed between the man's eyes.

"You're close enough I won't miss," George warned him. "Who the hell are you?"

The man looked a little older than George, wearing a flannel shirt and long pants with sturdy boots. He held his hands up placatingly. "You're lookin' for information about Brendan Walsh?" he queried.

George kept his gun leveled at him. "What of it?" he shot back.

"I have information for you," the man told him. "Bout Walsh, 'bout lots of things."

George waited. "So let's have it," he said.

The man shook his head. "Not here," he said. "Dunno that I weren't followed. 'Sides, it's all over at the distillery, everythin' you want to know."

"Who are you?"

"Dwyer. Alfie Dwyer," the man explained. "You meet me tomorrow night. I'll tell you everything you wanna know, Constable, I swear it."

George's blood ran cold. "W-what do you mean?" he feigned innocence. "I'm not-"

"You and your partner busted up a fight couple weeks ago at Smoky's. I know who you are. "

"Yeah, and I let you walk out of here, who's to say you keep your word?" George asked, his heart pounding. "Or that you don't go rattin' me to Martin or Parkington?"

Dwyer put his hands down. "I got no love for either of them," he assured George. "But what I know…you're gonna want to know too," he said. "Tomorrow. In that little alley between the fermentation room and the office." He backed up slowly toward the door, his eyes never leaving George's pistol.

Against his better judgment, George put the gun down. "Tomorrow?" he confirmed.

Dwyer nodded. "After last bell," he reminded him, and slipped out the door.

George waited a full count of ten before he breathed again. Touched a nerve, indeed.

He slept with his pistol under his pillow that night.

The sun was turning the sky a light pink as George tugged his hat low over his eyes and made his way to Parkington Whiskey the next morning. Out of the corner of his eye as he was about to cross Front Street, he spotted a familiar face and ducked across traffic, slipping between a couple of buildings.

"Anything, George?" Murdoch asked him, leaning against the wall of the breezeway.

"You might say that," George replied, and relayed the detective the events of the night before. "Mr. Dwyer seemed reluctant to tell me anything at my apartment, but I'm to meet him after our shift today."

"Could be a trap," Murdoch said when he'd finished. George nodded.

"Could be," he agreed, "but I won't know until tonight."

"Perhaps John or I should join you, discreetly," Murdoch suggested.

George shook his head. "No, sir, they've seen too much of you two. Let me handle this one."

Murdoch looked at him in concern. "Are you sure, George?" he asked.

"Yes sir," George told him. "I best get moving, don't want to be late on my second day," he said. "I'll meet you back at the station house tonight with what I learn," he added.

"Watch your back, George," Murdoch ordered him, and the constable nodded, leaving Murdoch in the alley as he continued down the street. Murdoch went back up Parliament to the nearest phone box and had the operator patch him through to Station House 4. "Jackson, I need to speak to Constable Brackenreid," he said. He waited, watching the street. "John. It's Detective Murdoch. I need you to see what you can find out about an Alfie Dwyer who works at the distillery."

Nina Bloom propped one leg against the front of the stage and leaned over it, feeling the muscle pull in the back of her calf. She gripped her toes, counting to five, and then releasing, before repeating the action. The Star Room wouldn't open for another eight hours but she wanted to be limber and ready to run through a new number when their piano player, Jeffrey, arrived.

There was a loud thunk to her right, and she glanced over to see Ken Smith with his hands on a crate of Parkington Whiskey. She averted her eyes lest Ken think he was what she was staring at. Ken Smith was a stout, fat man who smelled of cigarette smoke and whiskey just about any time of day and he was not her favorite person. Unfortunately, Nina happened to be Ken's.

"Ten cases of the usual?" their bartender, Mickey, was asking him.

Ken leaned over the bar, and Nina switched legs on the pretense of changing up the stretch when really, she was trying to listen to their conversation.

"Ten, plus one of somethin' special," Ken told him, glancing around the half-empty room. Nina pretended to be very busy inspecting the buckle on her shoes. "Cost you an extra twenty-five, but I guarantee you it's worth every penny," Ken continued.

Michael was considering it, Nina knew. It seemed stupid, at the heart of it, everyone came to the Star Room to see the girls dance, and probably would even if the liquor ran out. But Michael was always worried about his bottom line. She watched him slide the bills across the top of the counter, and Ken pocketed them smoothly. "Bring it out for your best," Ken said. His eyes scanned the room, settling on Nina, who had moved to sitting on the stage, legs on either side in a split.

"Speaking of the best," he said slyly, and Nina refrained from rolling her eyes, instead, plastering a smile on her face. "Good afternoon, Miss Nina," Ken greeted her, the words rolling off his tongue with an accent of whiskey.

"Hello, Ken," she responded. "Always a pleasure." It was a credit to her mother that she managed to keep a straight face. Always tell them what they want to hear, Eleanor Bloom had told her daughter.

"Indeed it is a pleasure," Ken replied, his eyes working their way up and down her legs.

Nina kept her eyes on him as she slipped one behind her, leaning forward on her elbows. "I heard you offer Mike something special for tonight?" she asked him, her eyes looking from the top of her costume's corset to him.

Ken was practically salivating. "A special blend," Ken replied. "A little extra kick, so to speak." He was leaning over the stage now.

Nina sat up quickly, and the delivery driver nearly toppled onstage. "Interesting," she replied. "Here I thought the only kicks you were interested in were the chorus line," she said with a flirtatious smile, before making her way backstage.

In the back, well away from Ken's prying eyes, she let out a breath. She looked at the clock. Perhaps a quick run to Station House 4 is in order, she thought.