Collared: A Gin & Tonic Mystery Read online

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  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  About L. A. Kornetsky

  For my Twinling and her DH,

  their Diva and Snark,

  for taking a weary traveler in,

  and giving her a warm place to rest

  Acknowledgments

  All due thanks to Barbara Caridad Ferrer, Aynjel Kaye, Janna Silverstein, Kat Richardson, and Jacqueline Pruner, who gave me their Seattle, and let me in turn give it to Ginny and Teddy. Any missteps, mistakes, or misrepresentations are the work of the author, not her advisers.

  The cat contemplated the distance, readied her muscles, and leapt. Her paws landed within an inch of her intent, and her hindquarters tucked in nicely. Cats did not preen over basics like that, but there might have been an extra curl to her whiskers as she continued along the rooftop.

  Cats also did not admit to boredom, but there might have been a bit of it, padding along with her. Hopefully, the day would provide something worth venturing outside for. And if not, she would stop by the busy place, where there would be food she didn’t have to catch, and a human or two worth marking.

  There were four buildings on this block, then she would have to go down to street level and cross to the next block to reach her destination. But when she came to the edge of the final roof, she instead sat down and watched the street, her tail curled comfortably around her, only the tip twitching.

  There. The cat’s ears pricked forward as two figures came around the corner. One human, female; the other a square-chested dog with skin that seemed a size too large for its body, its head about knee-high to the human. They were clearly out for a walk, but neither seemed particularly anxious to get where they were going. The woman was walking slowly, as though she were deep in thought, and the dog, rather than sniffing at the ground, kept lifting its head to peer down the street and up at the sky.

  The cat made a coughing noise, and the dog’s head swiveled that way. On seeing the cat, the dog’s tail, short, skinny, and curled up over its rump, wagged once. Then, as though revitalized, it picked up the pace, waking its owner from her trance, and setting forward to their destination with renewed vigor.

  Satisfied, the cat groomed her whiskers once, and then leapt gracefully onto the metal fire escape and made her way down to the street level. Things were looking up.

  1

  Seth!”

  “What?” A man’s voice yelled back, clearly irritated.

  Teddy, used to the older man’s moods, ignored the tone. “What’s on the menu tonight?”

  He waited. There was a muttering and a clanging noise from the little kitchen behind the bar, as Seth decided if he would answer or not.

  “Meatless chili. And pork sliders.” There was a pause. “And a salad.” Seth pronounced salad like it might bite him.

  “Thanks,” Teddy yelled back, then turned around and erased the previous day’s menu—chicken club, chicken soup, and the ever-present green salad—and wrote in the new offerings. People didn’t come here for food, as a rule, and the kitchen was about the size of a shoebox, but the boss wanted food available beyond the usual chips and nuts. Food meant people stayed longer. People staying longer meant they spent more money on booze.

  It wasn’t as though people didn’t have their choice of where to drink. There were three bars just in this portion of downtown Ballard, within shouting distance of each other. Nickel, on the other side of the avenue, was where recent college grads went to relive their escapades with cheap beer and drink specials on Thursday nights. If you were looking for a higher-end experience, you could walk down the street and around the corner to the Fish and pay twice as much for your drinks and small plates.

  And then there was Mary’s.

  Teddy put the blackboard back in place, and turned to contemplate his domain. With its bare wood decor and booze-and-snacks menu, Mary’s was where you could let your hair down a little and walk home afterward, where strangers were noticed but not bothered, and the regulars looked after each other. That was exactly the way he liked it.

  Mary’s was also, for a popular bar, surprisingly quiet. Except for the weekends, and Tuesday, which was trivia night and got a little hectic, you could always hear yourself think, and conversations could be held without having to yell. Teddy liked it that way, too.

  Unlike other places he’d worked, Mary’s had no jukebox, no band tucked into a corner as “value added.” There was a little stereo behind the bar that only played jazz—pleasant background noise if you were sitting at the bar, while if you took one of the booths or tables, you didn’t hear it at all. Acoustic tiles and careful placement of half walls splitting the bar into two distinct areas, one for mingling and one for serious drinking, helped keep the conversations from overrunning each other. Mary’s was where you met up with buddies to catch up, or stopped by to unwind after a long day; rowdies went elsewhere.

  On this particular Thursday afternoon, it was in the pause between the comfortable silence of the early drinkers and the full push of an evening crowd. Other than Seth in the back, there were only half a dozen people scattered through the space: three at a table together, starting the weekend early; two more sitting alone at the bar; and the sixth being Teddy.

  Teddy was using the quiet to prep for the later rush to come, taking clean glasses out of the compact commercial dishwasher below the counter and inspecting them for spots before placing them on the rack, his easy movements suggesting that he had experience, and all the time in the world to do this one thing exactly right.

  Being a bartender was occasionally chaotic, but there were moments of quiet calm, too. He had learned to appreciate both.

  One of the figures seated at the bar, a man, finished his drink and slid it a few inches across the polished granite bar top. “Another?”

  Teddy checked the glass first, and then looked up at the customer’s face. He hesitated, and then smiled. “Vodka tonic, lime, right?”

  The customer smiled back, pleased to be remembered. “Right.”

  Teddy took the glass and dumped it into the bin below the counter, then pulled down a fresh glass and mixed the vodka tonic quickly, with economical motions, ending with a wedge of lime slipped onto the rim and a cocktail napkin placed under the glass. The man slipped a bill back in return and waved off his change, moving back down the bar to a seat that had a better view of the room. He looked at the door, then shook his head and took a sip of his drink.

  A woman’s voice, pitched low for only the bartender to hear, said, “You shorted his drink.”

  That was a damning thing to say, usually a prelude to getting punched in the face—or at least refused further service—by the aforementioned bartender.

  Teddy merely sighed, refusing to take offense. “I did not.”

  The woman leaned on her elbows on the bar top and insisted. “You did so.”

  He took the towel off his shoulder and gave the gleaming counter a swipe, refusing to answer her. There was a trick to baiting; you h
ad to let them hook themselves, for the best result. He knew that.

  She waited, her drink at her right elbow, her hazel-green eyes daring him to deny what she had seen. Her hands rested on the bar, nails unpainted and trimmed short, fingers slender, a single silver ring on the left pinky. Competent hands, comfortably at rest. She’d wait all night if need be; he knew that from experience.

  “The guy’s meeting someone,” he said, finally. She took the point in that round; he couldn’t let the accusation stand, not when he had stone-cold logic in his defense. “The last thing he really wants is to be shitfaced when she gets here, and that was his third drink already.”

  The woman’s gaze flicked down to the display of her cell phone, carefully placed out of reach of her drink, and he could almost see her doing the math, little gray cells whirring. “Three before six? How long has he been here?”

  Teddy was tempted to make her work for the information, but the need to defend his honor took precedence. “He came in a little before you did.”

  “Oh.” She had only been there for about half an hour. “Yeah, he’s drinking too fast.” She frowned, and then her gaze sharpened on him. “Tonica, I was watching and he didn’t do more than give you his order. And he doesn’t look like the sharing type. How did you know he’s meeting someone?”

  Teddy shook his head in mock sorrow, feeling better now that she was still so clearly puzzled. That gave him the points back. Not that he kept score, or anything. “Virginia Mallard, you should know better than to doubt me, after all this time.”

  He wasn’t joking: they’d taken each others’ measure often enough. Ginny was one of Mary’s regulars, stopping by for a drink two or three times a week, and she hadn’t missed a Tuesday Trivia in nearly a year. Her team and his were tied for second place, overall. He and Mallard, they weren’t friends, although they knew each other well enough. She was taller than he liked, blonder than he liked, and definitely pushier than he liked. In fact, there wasn’t much about Ginny Mallard that he did like.

  No, he admitted ruefully, that wasn’t entirely true. Ignoring the fact that she was easy on the eyes, with hazel eyes that held a snap, and a figure that had just enough curve to catch the eye, Mallard was smart and she was occasionally funny, and she could kick back a martini with the style and sass of a 1940s movie moll, all things he appreciated in a woman. He might even—to himself, never her—say he enjoyed having her around to talk to.

  She was also a horrible, irritating know-it-all, and there was only room for one know-it-all in Mary’s during his shift: him.

  Those capable hands now tapped on the bar impatiently. “No, seriously. How did you know?”

  “Seriously?” Teddy took the challenge. “Fine. He’s never been in here before, he’s too close-shaved for after five on a Thursday night, and he keeps looking at the door like he’s expecting someone, but not looking at his watch or phone, the way you do when a friend’s running late.”

  Standard bartender skills: reading the clientele. Ginny made a face, but accepted his assessment. “Still. You shorted his drink.”

  He had. The guy was drinking too fast, on nerves; that was never a good combination. “Don’t start, Mallard.”

  Before she could reply, there was a loud thud from above them, near the ceiling, and then the rattle of glassware, as though something had just landed on one of the shelves of liquor behind him. Teddy didn’t bother to turn around. “Mistress Penny, you’d best not have knocked anything over.”

  Ginny shook her head, and looked down at the cell phone again, this time obviously checking to see if a text or phone call had come in. She was waiting for someone, too. “If she hasn’t by now, she never will. Little cat feet.”

  “Yeah well, all it takes is one misstep and the boss will kick us both out,” he said. There was a meow, barely loud enough to be heard, and he sighed, but backed up a step, until he was closer to the back counter than the front bar, and a pair of paws appeared on his left shoulder, followed by the rest of a small gray tabby-striped cat as she took his invitation, moving from cabinet to human perch.

  “You are so totally whipped,” Ginny said, grinning at the pair of them.

  “Yeah, yeah. Good evening, sweetness.” The latter part was directed to the cat, who did not meow again in return, but rested a proprietary paw on top of his head, her claws gently pricking his scalp through his close-cut hair.

  Mistress Penny-Drops had arrived about a year earlier, wandering in during a particularly bad rainstorm, drenched to the bone and meowing her unhappiness to everyone in the bar. Teddy had been on duty that night, and she had allowed him the honor of wrapping her in a bar towel and feeding her some of the left-over turkey from his club sandwich.

  Within a week she had earned her reputation as a decent mouser, and within a month had laid total claim to the bar as her domain, and Teddy Tonica specifically as “her” human. Anyone else could try to coax her with treats, but most of the time she ignored them.

  He had no idea where she went when she wasn’t at the bar, but she seemed content with the status quo. So long as nobody complained, she stayed.

  Ginny tapped the display of her phone, then pushed it away and looked up at them, scowling. Both cat and bartender looked back at her with calm eyes, one set green, the other brown. “I still don’t understand why she’s allowed in and Georgie isn’t.”

  Teddy reached his right hand up so the cat could sniff at him. “Because your dog slobbers.”

  Ginny drew back her shoulders and raised her pointed chin, preparing for battle—their usual mode of conversation. “She does not.”

  He scratched behind Penny’s ear, listening to her purr, trying not to flinch when she dug her claws in more securely. Her claws were small, but sharp. “Yeah, okay. She doesn’t drool. Accept that life is unfair and Patrick hates dogs. You want a refill?”

  His apparent peace offering threw her off stride, and she tilted her head, studying him from under a stray curl, clearly trying to decide if it was a trick, or if he really just wasn’t in the mood to spat.

  Actually, Teddy was always in the mood to argue, especially if it was something that didn’t actually matter, but he didn’t have the heart for this particular fight. If it were up to him, dogs would be fine. He’d looked it up: Washington State law allowed places to make their own rules. But he didn’t own Mary’s—Patrick did, even if the old man never was around much.

  And truthfully, he felt bad for the dogs—not just Georgie—stuck outside, although he supposed it was better than being stuck in the apartment while their owners were here. And Georgie, at least, seemed to enjoy the attention she got from people who walked by. Never mind that she was the ugliest excuse for a pooch he’d ever seen, with peach-fuzz fur, skin hanging in loose folds on her body, and oversized ears that flopped over one eye—other people seemed to think she was adorable.

  It was funny: for all his people-reading skills, four months ago, he never would’ve pegged Ginny Mallard for a pet owner. A workaholic, she came in here regularly to unwind, bust a few egos taking other teams down in trivia, and kick back just enough martinis to get herself politely lit. Usually, it took two, then she switched to ginger ale with a twist of lime for the rest of the evening. Friendly enough, but not buddy-buddy.

  And then she got Georgie, and suddenly she went from being Mallard to Mallard-who-had-a-dog, and didn’t come around as often as she used to: two nights a week, max. Not that he missed her particular company, he was just . . . he noticed when his regulars changed their habits, was all.

  “You want a refill or not, woman? I’ve got other customers to serve, while you contemplate your calorie sheet.”

  She glanced again at the phone next to her, and her face showed the slightest hint of both annoyance and worry. Whatever phone call or text hadn’t come, Teddy didn’t ask and she didn’t volunteer. A lot of people came to Mary’s to unload to the bartender. Ginny wasn’t one of them.

  That was another thing he didn’t dislike about h
er.

  “Time to start the serious drinking,” she said finally. “The usual, please. And no cat hairs in it, this time.”

  Lifting Penny off his shoulder and placing her down on the floor, he turned to make the drink, giving Ginny a very clear, cold shoulder for the slur on his bartending abilities.

  The cat, indignant at being put down before she was ready, let out an annoyed mrrrowp, and disappeared again.

  It was petty, but Ginny felt herself smile, despite her previously snappish mood. Getting a rise out of Tonica could always make her mood better. There hadn’t ever been any hairs, cat or otherwise, in her drinks, and as cats went, Miss Penny wasn’t bad. It wasn’t her fault Georgie wasn’t allowed into the bar.

  In fact, the first time she’d taken Georgie for a walk down past the bar, Miss Penny had sauntered out just as the shar-pei had paused to do her business. The puppy had fallen in love with the little cat in that instant and, weirdly enough, it seemed to be reciprocated. Now, every time Ginny came down to Mary’s, if the weather wasn’t too cold, she brought Georgie, so the four-legs could have a klatch of their own. That was probably where the cat had disappeared to, in fact—Ginny looked out the front window, craning her neck a little, and confirmed that dog and cat were now sitting nose-to-nose, for all the world like a pair of gossiping grannies.

  Even if there had been cat hairs in her drink, anyone or anything her dog loved . . .

  Ginny knew that she was a total sucker for the goofy, loving, half-grown dog she’d adopted on a whim. She wasn’t an animal person . . . but Georgie wasn’t “just” an animal. She was Georgie. Wrinkled and loving, with a few issues about “stay” but none at all about “come.”

  BG—before Georgie—to everyone she met, she’d been Ginny. Just Ginny, or maybe Ms. Mallard. Now she was Ginny-who-owned-Georgie. She wasn’t quite sure how that worked, but now when people saw her in the neighborhood—even people she’d have sworn she didn’t know—they asked about the dog before anything else. And she knew every dog in the neighborhood, and most of their owners, if not by their name, then by their pets’ names.