Page 45 of Hell Hath No Fury

Long before Emma could reach it, the truck pulled out and away, taking Nell with it.

ChapterThirteen

The Pub on Main’s interior reflected the mid-eighteenth century atmosphere so much of downtown Washington, Pennsylvania, celebrated. The atrium’s walls boasted rich wood wainscoting that appeared to be original to the historic building. Reproduction wallpaper completed the look.

The restaurant was busy, despite it being too early for lunch and too late for breakfast. Matthias followed Fergusson and Lukan to a podium where a young brunette in a crisp white shirt and black trousers waited. She greeted them with a smile. “Welcome to the Pub on Main.” She reached for a bin holding menus. “Are you here for breakfast or lunch?”

“Neither, I’m afraid.” Fergusson showed his badge and introduced his partner and Matthias. “We’re looking into the death of Greyson Jones.”

Her smile faded, her face growing somber. “I heard about that. How tragic.”

“Were you aware of a confrontation Jones had here with another customer, one Eric Baker?”

The somber expression further faded to one bordering on disgust. “I was here that afternoon. I felt so bad for Mr. Baker. He didn’t deserve to be treated that way.”

“What way was that?”

“Disrespected.” She glanced around before circling from behind the podium and lowering her voice. “Mr. Jones was a regular here, but we all dreaded seeing him come in. He drank too much and raised holy he—” She caught herself, blushed, and tried again. “He raised a fuss when we tried to cut his tap. The more he drank, the louder and more obnoxious he got. We had a server quit after being stuck with him. Newer hire, mind you, but still. Most of us have dealt with as bad or worse, but he definitely wasn’t a customer for the faint of heart.” She flushed and looked around again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said so much.”

“Don’t apologize,” Fergusson told her. “This is helpful. Can you tell us specifically about the incident between Jones and Baker?”

Her gaze snapped toward the door, and she raised a finger. “Give me a minute.” She grabbed a couple of menus and greeted a well-dressed elderly couple by name.

A few minutes later, she returned with another employee in tow. “Tammy will man the hostess station while I take my break,” she said to Fergusson before directing the three of them to a private meeting room at the rear of the restaurant. She closed the door. “Now I can speak more freely.”

Matthias lowered into a chair next to Fergusson with Lukan on the other side. The young brunette, who identified herself as Sheila, sat across from them.

“To answer your question,” she began, “the ‘incident,’ as you call it, was entirely Mr. Jones’s fault. He was being belligerent even to the members of his own party.”

“Who all was in his party?”

Her brow furrowed momentarily before replying. “Patrick Winslow…”

“His foreman.”

“I believe so, yes. Ms. Neidermeyer.”

“His assistant.”

“And three other gentlemen, not regulars here. Ms. Neidermeyer picked up the check for all of them, so I didn’t get their names.”

“Ms. Neidermeyer paid the check?”

“She always does. With the company’s card.” Sheila gave a shy grin. “I’ve often wondered if she handled the business dinners to keep Mr. Jones from running up an even bigger bar tab.”

Matthias made a note to speak with Tina Neidermeyer again when she wasn’t trying to run Emma and him out of the office.

“Tell us exactly what happened between Jones and Baker.”

“Mr. Baker, who is perfectly lovely, by the way, was having abusiness dinner with a couple of other men. I know it was a business meeting, because Mr. Baker had a folder of pamphlets and brochures and spreadsheets. Mr. Jones got up, went to their table, and started asking Mr. Baker about his dates.” She made air quotes around the last word. “Poor Mr. Baker was mortified at first.”

“What did he do?”

“He tried to make excuses to his clients. You know, saying Jones was always cracking jokes, but Mr. Jones wouldn’t take the hint. He kept getting louder and pushier. A couple of our waiters tried to intervene and convince him to go back to his table.” She shook her head. “It only made him worse. He started calling Mr. Baker all kinds of horrible names. By then, he wasn’t so much mortified as livid. Bottled up, but livid.”

“What kind of names?”

“I can’t repeat them.” She lowered her voice. “He’s gay, you know.”