Chief Inspector Watson and Sergeant Holmes grilled Simon Sullivan's three sons about their father's murder, then left the wooded estate and headed to Albert's Green Lantern Pub for a bit of ale and review.
"You want the back room?" the scraggly bearded owner asked. "That way you can talk over your investigation without anyone overhearing."
"Very kind of you, Albert." Watson said. He chewed at a corner of his gray mustache, then fastened his deep-set, brown eyes on Holmes. "Sergeant, you get the drinks and I'll hold the room."
"Yes, sir," Holmes said, to Watson's large retreating backside. Damn! His first big case since transferring to Medley Vale and already Watson had him buying.
"You gonna make an arrest soon?" Albert asked as he served up the pints.
"Can't say," Holmes replied.
"Was it one of the sons?"
"Can't say." Holmes repeated.
"Bet it was. Course it also could've been Herb Morton or his wife Althea. They put up with being old Sullivan's gardener, chauffeur, cook and maid for more years than any sane folk could ever be expected to."
"I can't say," Holmes said once more. He threw a couple bills on the bar, scooped up the two cold mugs and headed to the back room where Watson waited impatiently.
"You didn't tell him anything, did you Holmes?"
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