murder Daiquiri

I couldn’t believe it. But then again, given my intersection between dumb luck and clumsiness, it wasn’t a surprise. 

My white blouse was the only clean top I could find after several minutes of rifling through the various stacks of clothes strewn around the apartment. I had been in Maple Creek for a few months already, and if one looked around the apartment above the Feisty Goat that I had been renting from Grams, one would get the impression I’d moved in just moments before a hurricane swept through. 

I had grabbed my cup of coffee for a final swig before racing out the door. I missed. I dumped a substantial spill down the front of what had been my clean white blouse. Adulting was apparently beyond my grasp that evening, and I was going to be late. 

Nellie, the dog I’d rescued on the side of the highway, followed me around, looking at me while cocking her head. That’s how the evening started, with pity from a dog. 

“It’s easy for you,” I said to her as I searched my closet, trying to find something that would make a good first impression. “You have pretty fur. You look good all the time.” Nellie wagged her tail, her pity turning to dog joy, knowing I was talking about her. 

I found one of Gramps’ old flannel shirts that was as free as possible of dog fur. I gave it a good shake and realized it had a smudge of oil paint on the back. I didn’t know why I was so nervous. It wasn’t like it was a first date. It wasn’t even a date at all. 

I held the shirt up and examined it. The smudge was barely noticeable. The shirt could have passed for Maple Creek dressy, and more importantly, Nellie had not taken a nap on it. 

Decision made. 

My next task was to make it through dinner without dropping a meatball in my lap. 

With a pat on her head, I told Nellie to be a good girl and dashed down the stairs. Michael and his friends had already emptied a half a pitcher of beer when I arrived at Angelo’s Pizza. “I’m sorry I’m late,” I announced.

“Nonsense,” Michael said as he stood. “You’re just running on Maple Creek time.” His three friends stood and shook my hand as he introduced each of them: Scott Leggett, Kevin Evans, and Mark Duncan. The four men had been roommates in college and, even though they now lived in different parts of the country, they got together once a year for a long weekend of fishing. Michael poured a beer for me and refilled his friends’ glasses. His own glass was still nearly full, which didn’t surprise me. I had never known him to be much of a drinker. 

“Michael said the paintings at the Maple Creek Inn are yours,” Kevin said as we waited to order. “Impressive!”

I’d often felt uncomfortable when people complimented my art, but over the years, I had learned the most appropriate thing to say is quite simple: “Thank you. I’m glad you like it.”

“Kelly went to art school in New York,” Michael interjected, “and she was starting to have some shows.” 

“Really!” Scott exclaimed. 

“Michael is exaggerating.” I could feel my face turning red. “I had a show scheduled in a little coffee shop near my apartment, but I had to cancel it.” I didn’t tell Michael’s friends that I’d had to cancel my debut coffee shop solo exhibition because I believed Grams was dying, and I had to rush back to Maple Creek. 

“You had a painting in a gallery,” Michael said. “That’s something.” 

I chuckled. “I’m not sure if I would call that a gallery,” I said. “It really was more of a criminal smuggling operation.” 

Kevin leaned back in his chair and shrugged. “A criminal operation? That’s pretty impressive,” he said. “Any artist can get their paintings in a gallery. Not every artist could get work in a criminal smuggling operation. That’s pretty rare.” 

“I hadn’t thought about it that way,” I said. Kevin raised his glass and smiled. 

After we ordered our pizzas, Mark said the group should meet up in New York next year.

“I’ve always wanted to go,” he said. “Did you like living there?” 

I told the men I did, and I thought everyone should visit the city at least once. “But I’m not sure if the fishing would be as good as it is here in Maple Creek,” I quipped. Feeling the conversation was turning a little too Kellycentric, I asked the four men how they’d become roommates in college. When I left for art school in New York and Michael went off to college, we wrote to each other for a while, then drifted apart as our studies started taking over our lives. I knew very little about that period of his life. 

“That was the Ridge Street house close to campus,” Scott said. “Whenever someone graduated and moved on, someone new moved in. It seemed people were always moving in and out, and we just happened to be together in that house for our senior year.” 

I commented that it’s rare that roommates, thrown together by chance like that, would still be friends so many years later. 

“I think so too,” Kevin replied. “I’m glad we still stay in touch.” The other men nodded in agreement. 

“Those were some crazy years,” Scott said. “I’m surprised we all didn’t end up in jail.” The look on my face must have betrayed my disbelief. 

“Why are you surprised?” Kevin asked. 

I told them while I didn’t know the three of them, the thought of Michael doing anything that would land him in jail seemed out of character. 

Scott laughed and asked me how well I knew Michael. “Your friend here really knew how to live it up in those days,” he said, slapping his hand on the back of Michael’s shoulder. 

If Michael had gone wild in college, it was probably the most organized and sedate version of wild anyone had ever seen. I could not imagine the man who kept everything obsessively organized, always in its assigned place, would have been flirting with danger and mayhem during college. Michael was one of the most focused people I knew. He had known he wanted to be a veterinarian when he was in high school and pursued his dream with intense passion. 

“Just on the weekends,” Michael replied, seemingly embarrassed about being the subject of the conversation. “And I really wasn’t that crazy. The worst thing I ever did was skip class and sit by the duck pond reading.” 

“He’s being modest,” Scott said. “I’m sure he has some stories that would shock you. But everyone lets their hair down once in a while in college. It didn’t do us any harm. In fact, I think we all came out ahead.” 

“How so?” I asked. 

“We made it to graduation fairly unscathed,” Scott answered. “Each of us is doing all right. We go fishing once a year. Life’s good.” 

I asked the three friends what they did for a living. Scott had moved back to Seattle and opened an accounting business, Kevin had gone on to medical school and worked in Phoenix as a cardiologist, and Mark landed a job in a Chicago PR firm. 

When the pizza arrived, Scott took a deep breath and immediately reached for a slice. Michael plated a slice and handed it to me, then waited until Mark and Kevin helped themselves. The conversation turned toward fond reminiscing about the four friends’ life together in the Ridge Street house. The house sounded like any other place where a group of twenty-something-year-old men lived, but I didn’t feel I had the right to judge, given the state of my apartment. 

As is typical when four guys get together, the conversation turned to sharing memories of their younger adventures. Kevin and Mark talked about the time they had tried their hand at whitewater kayaking in Colorado. “We’re pretty lucky to be alive,” Kevin said with a chuckle. He looked at me, the only one in the group who hadn’t heard the story already and explained that they realized quickly that they didn’t have the experience needed for that particular route. 

“So, what was your death-defying adventure?” I asked Michael, nudging him with my elbow. 

“I once had mall sushi,” he said with a grin. Kevin promised me he would take Michael on a more dangerous adventure one day. 

“What about you, Scott?” I asked. “What was your brush with death?” 

Kevin interrupted with an answer. “Scott once took a bus to New Orleans,” he said, slapping Scott on his shoulder. 

“That doesn’t sound like it was tempting fate,” I replied with a wink. 

“It was a three-day trip,” Kevin said with a laugh. “Three solid days on stinky buses!” 

Scott brushed him off. “I didn’t mind it, really. It gave me a chance to see more of the country than I had ever seen before.” 

Michael leaned closer to me and said Scott was the only person he knew who didn’t mind being on a bus for hours on end.  

We finished dinner around ten, when Mark said he needed to turn in if the group was going to leave first thing in the morning for their fishing trip. “I’m still on Chicago time,” he said, trying to stifle a yawn. 

When the waitress came by with the bill, Scott immediately grabbed it. “This one’s on me,” he said. “It’s good to see you guys again.” The three other men and I made a perfunctory show at arguing, offering to chip in or at least leave the tip. Scott shook his head. “It’s been a good year for me,” he said. “My treat.” 

Scott, Mark, and Kevin went back to the Maple Creek Inn, Michael drove home, and I stopped in the Feisty Goat before going upstairs. Grams and her friends were sitting near the pool table, laughing like a pack of honey badgers. “Kelly, would you come here?” Grams called out. “I need your opinion on something.” Cards littered the table, suggesting the ladies had just finished a heated round of poker. “Who do you think would make a better Victor Laszlo?” she asked. “Dave or that lawyer friend of yours?” 

“Victor who?” I asked. 

“Laszlo,” she said with a huff. “Victor Laszlo. Casablanca?” 

I wondered what started this conversation but had the common sense not to ask. 

“Do you think your lawyer friend or Dave would be better?” 

“My lawyer friend,” I said, hoping my indifference came out in my tone. “Kirk.” 

“I told you she would say that.” Minnie Carter laughed, slapping her hand on the table. “Your granddaughter has no imagination!” 

Grams waived Minnie off. “Just give her a few years,” she said.

“All right,” I replied. “Dave.” 

Grams shook her head. “Now you’re just trying to go with the flow,” she scolded with an exaggerated sigh. “I don’t know what’s worse, no imagination or not having confidence in your opinions.” 

“Is there an actual point to this conversation?” I asked. 

“There is,” Grams said defiantly. “It just so happens the ladies and I are planning a Casablanca night. We thought it would add a little class to the Feisty Goat. We’re going to set up a roulette wheel for charity, and everyone has to wear dinner jackets or vintage 1940s dresses.” 

I wondered where the men of Maple Creek, particularly the Feisty Goat crowd, were going to find white dinner jackets. Most of the men in town owned one suit, at least fifteen years old, which they wore whenever the occasion arose: weddings, funerals, or taking out a loan from the bank. Casablanca night at the Feisty Goat. White dinner jackets? “Are you going to be Rick?” I asked. 

“No,” Grams said, shooting me a crusty look. “Spider is going to be Rick. I’m more of an Ilsa Lund.”

“You?” I asked trying not to burst out laughing. 

“Yes, me,” Grams said. “Radiance, beauty, charm….” 

“It’s so obvious,” Ruth Watson said. 

“Who do you expect me to be for this Casablanca night?” I asked. 

“Who was that refugee woman?” Minnie asked. 

“Annina Brandel,” Ruth said. 

Grams shook her head. “It wouldn’t work,” she replied. “Annina was married.” The women erupted in laughter. 

“Maybe I’ll be the pickpocket,” I said. 

“With this crowd?” Grams laughed. “You’d be lucky to walk away with five dollars and a handful of IOUs!” 

I left Grams and her friends to their planning and went upstairs to work on some paintings. I hadn’t had time to create new ones for the Maple Creek Inn—they seemed to be selling faster than I could paint them. When I opened the door, I heard Nellie’s leash drop onto the floor. She had managed to get it off its hook and carry it to the door, dropping it to give me a hint. 

A light drizzle began to fall as Nellie and I walked down the street from the Feisty Goat, but it didn’t seem to bother her at all. It didn’t matter if it was freezing, hot, rain, or snow. If Nellie was on a walk, she was oblivious to almost everything. She ambled from one bush or tree to the next, taking time to sniff each one carefully, her brow pronounced as if she were considering the philosophical implications of each scent. When we arrived back in the apartment, she waited until I took my jacket off before she shook the water off her fur and all over me. 

“Thanks, dog,” I replied as she looked at me with her tongue hanging out of her mouth like a furry goof. 

The dinner conversation played through my head as I started to paint. I was flattered that Michael had bragged about my artwork and time in New York. When we were in school, he had always supported my dreams, even though it meant the end of our relationship. I suspected deep down, he knew I would go my way, he would go his, and the two of us would drift apart. 

Even though I needed to bring more paintings to the inn, I started one for him—the meadow he and I would hike to when we were teens. If anyone deserved one of my paintings, it was Michael. I had just put the base coat on the canvas when my cell phone rang. 

“Michael,” I answered. “I was just thinking about you.” Silence. “Can you hear me?” I asked. 

“I think…” Michael paused. He sounded worried. 

“Are you all right?” I asked. 

“I think we might have killed someone,” he said.