The Bottom Line
By Carol Goodman Kaufman
I looked up from my desk to see a dark figure through the wavy glass of the office door. A beefy man in a dark green parka let himself into the anteroom and approached Gloria, my receptionist.
“G’morning,” Gloria said, looking him over. “How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Eric Brophy. Is he here?”
You can see me sitting here through the open door.
“Yeah. Who can I say is asking?”
The man pulled a badge from his pocket and held it out. “Ma’am, I’m Detective Phil Salerno. I need to see Mr. Brophy.”
“Eric!” she called. “Ya got company.” She indicated the inner office with a nod of her head and a snap of her chewing gum.
Salerno let himself through. He looked around the office with an appraising eye. I was proud of my antique wooden desk, inherited from Papa Jack. Every item on it had a place, probably unlike his own police-issue metal desk, gray and dented.
A red maple leaf was stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
“Mr. Brophy, thank you for seeing me. I understand you’re busy, so I’ll make this fast. Do you know Hal Findley?”
“Sure, I know him. I do the books for Findley’s bar. Why?”
“Well sir, I’m afraid I have some bad news. Findley is dead.”
My jaw dropped. “Dead?”
“Murdered.”
I slumped forward in my chair. “How? When?”
“I’ll ask the questions, sir. Where were you this morning?”
I lifted my head. “If you’re asking, you know where I was.”
“Yeah, we have a witness who saw you leave the bar at 9 o’clock. Care to tell me what you were doing there so early?”
“Witness?”
“Yeah, we got a call on the 911 line.”
Who could’ve seen me there?
“Again, sir, what were you doing there?”
“I do the bar’s books. Because it’s a bar, if I went in later, Hal would be too busy with customers.”
“And?”
“I collect his paperwork.”
“He can’t just email it to you, like most other people?”
“Hal and I are friends. We have breakfast every time I come.”
“So, you eat at the bar?”
“No. We eat at the diner across the street. Angie’s.”
“And Angie will confirm that?”
“Yeah, she’ll confirm it. We sit in the same booth every time.”
Could Angie be the so-called witness? Or was there somebody else?
“What time did you get back here?”
“About 10.”
“Can anybody confirm that?”
“Gloria was here. She’ll tell you.”
Salerno switched subjects. “Do you know of anybody who would want to harm Mr. Findley?”
I hesitated a nano-second too long. “Hal was a great guy and a good friend but, um, he had a habit.”
“Drugs?”
“No, no. Gambling. Sometimes he took money out of the till.” I rushed to defend my buddy, “But he always paid it back.”
“Why would it matter if a business owner takes money out of the till?”
Aha. The light clicks on. “Hal isn’t the owner. He’s the manager.”
Now it was Salerno’s turn to look puzzled. “But the bar is called Findley’s.”
“It’s a family name. His uncle owns the bar. Hal needed a job and Sean prefers family.”
“So, somebody he could trust,” Salerno said.
Maybe.
I sighed before continuing. “Over the past few months, I noticed that expenses were higher for liquor, but income wasn’t keeping up. Now, Findley’s is a busy bar, so I got suspicious. I worried that Hal had started selling bottles under the table and keeping the cash. Stealing from his own uncle! I was furious.”
“So, you argued. And don’t try to deny it. We have a witness who heard you.”
“Sure, we argued. I was trying to get him to see reason. If he didn’t stop and get help, he would lose everything.”
“Did you tell Sean about your suspicions?”
“No, not yet. I was waiting to hear what Hal had to say before I did anything. Remember, Hal was my friend. We grew up together.”
Salerno tapped his fist on my desk. “Yeah. Go on.”
I scratched my chin and discovered a spot the razor had missed this morning. “Something doesn’t add up here.”
“Is that supposed to be a bookkeeper joke?”
I grunted. “I meant that we were alone in the bar. How did this so-called witness know about the fight? Nobody could have heard us.”
Unless we weren’t alone.
“How did you get into the bar?”
“I knocked. Hal let me in.”
“And he locked the door behind you?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you sit at the bar?”
“No. We went into his office. In the back.” I practically jumped out of my chair. “Somebody else let themselves into the building. Somebody with a key. Somebody who heard us fighting. And what we were fighting about. Sean Findley.”
“I think you just solved the murder, Mr. Brophy.”
“I’m a bookkeeper, Detective. I can add two and two.”
THE END
