Girls of Brackenhill(70)

Inside the bar, the dance floor glowed red. The music switched, something twangy and new country with a steady beat, and a few bodies pulsed to the rhythm, pressed together. Some kissing. At the bar, the man from the other day was filling mugs on tap. Simple, straightforward beer: Miller, Bud, Coors. Someone down the bar top asked for an IPA, and the man barked out a curt no without looking up.

Hannah sat in the corner and waited for business to die down. The man she assumed was Pinker was younger than she’d thought he’d be. Maybe her age. With a mop of curly blond hair and biceps bursting out of his T-shirt. His mouth moved to the song coming from the jukebox, and someone across the bar from him said something that made him laugh. His smile was disarming.

“Can I help you?” He appeared in front of her holding a rag, his eyes skipping around the room.

“Are you Pinker? Do you own the place?” Hannah asked, a smile coyly playing on her lips. More flies with honey and all that jazz. It was much easier to flirt with Pinker than Warren.

“Depends on who’s asking.” He laughed and filled another mug before setting it down in front of an older woman to Hannah’s left. “Are you the IRS?”

“No. I’m Fae Webster’s niece?” Goddamn it, that had come out like a question. She hated that.

He stopped moving and gaped at her. “I thought she was dead.”

“The other one. Her sister.” And then because Hannah couldn’t help it: “She’s not dead.”

He studied her, his brown eyes searching her face. “Ah yes. I always forget she had a sister.”

“Everyone does.” Hannah let it hang there untouched for a moment. She was always the other one, at least since she’d been back in Rockwell. Then she cleared her throat. “Was Warren in here the night Fae died?”

“All night. Already checked those records for McCarran.” Pinker didn’t make a move to wait on anyone else, despite the clamor at the other end of the bar.

“Why would Officer McCarran think that Warren killed Fae?”

“You’d have to ask him.” Pinker shrugged and made a move to walk away, but Hannah called him back. He gave her a look and said, “Besides, why would you?”

“Because he’s the meanest guy in town. And he had a history with my aunt.”

“History is one word for it, yeah. They hated each other, loved each other, then hated each other for the past forty years.”

“Okay, but I’m no detective. Obviously.”

“Obviously. Listen, is that all, or do you want to order something?”

Hannah looked around; the place was starting to empty out. It was ten o’clock on a Tuesday. Summer or not, some of these folks had to work. “Miller Lite,” she said. From a tray on the bar, she picked up a matchbook emblazoned with Pinker’s on the outside and a phone number. She stuck it in her jeans pocket.

Hannah nursed the beer for a half hour. Alternating between checking her phone and watching the door. She didn’t want to be around if Warren stumbled back in—or worse yet, Wyatt.

Pinker made his way back to her end and gestured to her glass. She shook her head.

“What’s your real name?”

“Joel Pinkerton. Pinker’s was my dad’s; I took it over after his stroke.” He had started to clean up, pushing each glass down over the wash spigot and setting them on a clean towel next to the sink.

“Sorry about your dad.” She tapped a credit card on the glass, and he took it from her, ran it through the machine. “I’m Hannah Maloney.”

“I know who you are. Bull’s been ranting and raving about you for a week now.”

“Me? Why?”

“Poking around his life, he says.” Joel stopped washing glasses and put both hands facing down on the bar, leaning toward her. “He’s not a good guy, you know. You’d be wise to stay out of his way. He and your family are entwined, and you don’t live here. He’s a hothead.”

“I know. I can handle myself.” Hannah straightened her spine, felt her jaw square.

“I’m sure. But you’re getting yourself wrapped up in shit you don’t understand. It’s ancient history, but not to Bull.”

“What’s ancient history? His marriage to Fae?” Hannah spun her glass, her fingertips tapping in the condensation puddles on the wood.

He knitted his brows, studied her face. “Is it possible you really have no idea? I thought you were putting on an act.”

“I assure you, I cannot act. Have no idea about what?” Hannah did her best to meet his gaze, opening her own eyes a little wider. Another flirt trick from Julia. She’d forgotten most of them, but somehow lately, she could hear Julia’s voice. Remember her sisterly advice—even the ridiculous kind.

“Ellie. Warren. Fae.” Joel circled his hand around like, You know. She did not know.

“Ellie is Warren’s daughter. Fae was her stepmother until she was ten. Warren and Fae were married. That’s all I know.” Hannah splayed her hands out like, See?

“Damn, you’re not playing me.” Joel ran a hand through his thick hair. “Okay, listen, but you didn’t hear all this from me. The night Ellie ran away—and she truly ran away, she had a bus ticket, the cops have her on camera at the station—Warren swears on his life he saw her up at Brackenhill. He’s been spouting nonsense about it ever since. I mean, he’s been a drunk for twenty years or more; it’s not credible, but . . . he did get McCarran to reopen the investigation.”