Page 11 of Exposure of Murder

Ethan carefully chalked the cue stick and positioned his hand over the pool table to line up his shot, his body tense with concentration.

How many times over the years had he stood in this exact position? His mind drifted back to a memory of teaching Corrine how to play. How he leaned close, inhaling her sweet scent of jasmine, how soft her skin was. And how she unintentionally almost emasculated him with the cue stick. He snorted. Memories … not all bad.

In the background, the low hum of conversation competed with the clinking of glasses. The familiar scent of fried food and beer lingered in the air. His stomach growled.

He circled around the table and eyed the three balls left—a striped, a solid and the eight ball. The game was tight.

He and Matt Reynolds were teammates and had each bet ten bucks on the game.

“Come, old man,” Adam Sadler shouted from his corner. “We don’t have all night.” He and Charlie Anderson were on the other team, their cue sticks ready.

“Don’t listen to them,” Matt said, rubbing his hand through his gray hair—his prematurely gray hair since he was only forty. “They’re just jealous because they lost the last couple of games.”

Ethan chuckled and nodded his head in agreement. Tonight, it was just the four of them. Matt Reynolds, a local veterinarian; Adam, Ethan’s boyhood friend and a deputy sheriff in Beaver Creek; and Charlie Anderson, the oldest of the group, who ran Chuck’s Garage, established by his father.

Every other week on a Friday night, they got together for a couple of cold beers, burgers and friendly competition at the Bottom-Up Tavern. They played pool, shit-talked, maybe won a little money and went home. Matt to his wife, Linda, Charlie to his girlfriend of the month, and he and Adam alone. Sometimes other friends stopped by, but the four of them were the core group.

The room held five additional pool tables, each boasting a rectangular stained-glass fixture hanging overhead. Tonight, the air was filled with the sound of clacking balls and good-natured ribbing from two of the tables.

Ethan took his shot and watched as the striped ball sank into the corner pocket. Adam and Charlie groaned. Then Ethan followed it with the eight ball.

Game over.

Matt collected the pot and handed half to Ethan.

“Thank you, boys,” said Matt with a grin as he stuffed the money in his pocket. “I have enough money to buy coffee in the morning.”

“Adam. Man.” Charlie shook his head at his partner. “Gotta tell you, that was a sad, sad game.”

“Hey, don’t blame me,” said Adam. “You’re the one who missed the last two shots.”

“I wouldn’t have missed if you weren’t yapping,” countered Charlie.

Ethan hung up his cue stick on the rack and turned to his friends. “You guys need to stop talking smack. I’m starving and ready for a beer and burger.”

The men found a side table and settled in.

The Bottom-Up was separated into two sections: the poolroom and the bar. It was a no-frills old-fashioned bar filled with simple wooden chairs and tables. People came to drink, eat or play pool—sometimes all three. There was no entertainment other than the occasional bar fight and the jukebox, and it was crowded every weekend.

It was also the first bar Ethan ever drank in when he turned twenty-one, although he tried several times earlier and got kicked out for being underage. That was the downside of living in a small town—everyone knew everyone.

“What can I get you boys?” Missy Strong appeared by the table, order pad in hand.

“Just in time, Missy,” said Adam with a grin. “I’ll have my usual.”

She rolled her eyes and smirked. “You mean the double burger with extra cheese and fries with a side of sexy woman?” She pretended to drop an imaginary mic.

“Ohhh, Missy’s got your number,” teased Charlie.

The guys laughed. Adam wasn’t a womanizer, but he did like the ladies. Ethan envied him his casual attitude and ability to attract women. Good for Adam, but he wasn’t looking for a woman anymore. Burned once, that was all his heart could handle.

Adam pursed his lips in mock annoyance. “Very funny, Missy. Just the burger and fries tonight,” he said. “Oh, and a draft beer. What’s on tap?”

Missy rattled off a selection of draft beers from the local Beaver Creek Brewery, which had started producing small quantities of craft beers several years ago and became so popularthat it expanded into a tasting room with food trucks parked outside.

With a smile, Matt said, “Make mine a Pumpkin Patch Porter.”

“Same,” the other guys chimed in.

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