A Catered St. Patrick's Day Read Free Page B

this thing squared away so we can get RJ’s ready for this afternoon.”
    “I’m not so sure that’s going to happen,” Libby observed, assuming that “this thing” Mulroney was referring to was Mike Sweeney’s death.
    “And why is that?” Mulroney demanded.
    “Why do you think?” Libby asked him. The man was either incredibly callous or incredibly stupid. Or both.
    “I don’t have a clue,” Mulroney said.
    “Call me crazy, but the last I knew,” Libby told him, “murder investigations take precedent over business openings.”
    “Murder?” Mulroney’s eyebrows came together. “Why do you assume Sweeney’s death is a murder?” he said, his voice rising. “It looks like an accident to me.”
    “You’re kidding me, right?” Bernie said.
    Mulroney straightened out the lapels of his camel-hair coat. “Not at all. Obviously, Sweeney snuck around to the back and opened the keg. Then when he went to drink some beer, he slipped, hit his head on the barrel, and passed out. No one was there to pull him out, so he drowned.” Mulroney patted his tie. “Hell, it could even be suicide. I heard this guy Sweeney had a lot of problems. Maybe he decided to end it all. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I’m sure that’s what happened.”
    “It would be a novel way to do it,” Bernie said. “Is that the story you’re going to tell the police?”
    “I’m not going to tell,” Mulroney italicized the word tell with his fingers, “the cops anything. They’ll come to that conclusion on their own.” He shrugged. “If you’d been in the bar business as long as I have, you would have learned that a lot of weird stuff goes on. One thing I will say, though. Sweeney was a pain in the ass when he was alive and he’s a pain in the ass now that he’s dead. That’s indisputable.” He turned to Brandon. “Has the linen guy come in yet?” he asked him, dismissing Mike Sweeney in one sentence.
    Bernie was offended. Even though she hadn’t liked Sweeney, he still deserved better than being treated like an inconvenient piece of trash.
    “Well, has he?” Mulroney repeated when Brandon didn’t answer immediately.
    Brandon looked at his watch. “He should be here in another ten minutes or so.”
    “Good,” Mulroney said. “Why don’t you go inside and get busy, while I wait for the police.”
    “So you’re really going to try to get this place open for business?” Libby asked Mulroney.
    “On one of the busiest days of the year? What do you think?”
    “I think yes,” Libby said.
    Mulroney bared his teeth in what passed for a grin and clapped. “Very good. Now, I think it’s time for you girls to get moving. Brandon and I have a lot of work to do.”
    Libby looked at Bernie, who gave her an imperceptible nod, and started moving toward the van.
    “Later,” Bernie said to Brandon.
    “Definitely.” And he made a fist and held it up to his ear, mimicking a calling motion.
    “What do you think?” Libby said to Bernie once they had turned out of the parking lot.
    “About what?” Bernie asked as she waited for a car to pass before she got into the left-hand lane.
    “About Sweeney’s death being a homicide.”
    “Oh, without a doubt,” Bernie said. “I think that somewhere between three and nine in the morning someone killed Sweeney. Now whether he was drowned in the keg or killed somewhere else is a question the ME will have to answer.”
    Libby looked up from studying a small rip in her jacket pocket. “I think he was killed here. It makes more sense. Why kill him somewhere else and drag the body to the back of the bar? Sweeney was a big guy. It would have been quite a job.”
    Bernie readjusted the van’s rearview mirror. “Unless someone was sending a message.”
    “To whom and for what?”
    “Don’t know,” Bernie answered. “It was just a thought.”
    Libby looked at Bernie. “So if Sweeney was killed in back of RJ’s,” she said, thinking aloud, “that means that he came