A Possible Murder Mystery... Just Trying it Out, Sort of...

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth 

to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:    A Possible Murder Mystery...  Just Trying it Out, Sort of...

Chapter One – Leonard and Mavis

He was completely into the dance, executing a kind of arabesque as he performed the routine -- more ritual than tedium -- that started his workday every day, five days a week.  His arms were flung wide, extending, his legs gliding as if on ice, first to his right, then back to the left, fluid, nearly artistic.  Or, at least to some, it seemed like a dance, and it amused them to think of it as such, certain staff members of long-standing, fellow employees of Leonard’s, principal day-shift bartender at the Beech Tree and Basswood Inn. 

Leonard began his workday as he normally did, placing the bottles of liquor, spirits and cordials on the three rows of shelves that lined the back bar, situating the bottles in precisely the same, pre-ordained order that was seen to each day, and had been the duty of the chief day bartender for the three-and-a-half year history of the inn.  The bottle formation was twinned on either side of the back bar, gloriously displayed, underside and back lit, adding to their almost hypnotic profusion of color.  The ridiculously tall and ornate bottles that contained the yellow-gold liqueur with the stylized Italian military hat-corks went to the center, additional cordials with their rich hues and textures to its flanks.  Then came the expensive “call-brands” of bourbon, rye whiskey, scotch, gin, vodka and other spirits in their precise positions, in accordance with their popularity and ease of grasp by the always-rushed corps of bartenders, day and nighttime crews alike.  

  

The rules that governed bar procedure were set down by a state-controlled liquor board in Washington State during the late 1960’s and on into the 1970’s, and one of the sacrosanct “laws” mandated that all bottles containing alcoholic beverages had to be removed from the back bar, locked away from closing until opening time and replaced upon the back bar at the start of the following business day.  The wells and automated dispensing system that contained “house brands” were similarly governed by the rules of after-hours storage.  The system had to be locked or otherwise disabled. 

   

Leonard undertook the task, the daily routine, faithfully, with remarkable grace and efficiency, seemingly with a certain kind of gratification, and, oddly, with a measure of gleefulness, each day of his working life.

Not Leonard, but it could be him when he aged into his
later 50s or early 60s...  unless he's dead!  

Leonard Hoaglund was the “day bar manager,” a largely ceremonial title conferred as a result of a kind of privilege he enjoyed.  Leonard was a relatively tall man, standing perhaps six-feet-one-inch.  His height and exceptional reach were advantages in the daily bottle re-placement routine.  He was almost handsome, his hair a darker shade of blond, stick-straight and brushed back over a forehead that was low and sometimes rippled in concentration, gray and white strands of it having invaded the proud blond profusion of his prime.  He was solidly built, robust and almost always in a pleasant mood.  His widely spaced blue eyes were full of fun and laughter, his nose prominent but straight, his mouth wide and frequently made even wider by a smile that was consistently genuine.  Now in his mid-forties, more than 20 years into a professional life spent primarily “behind the bar,” Leonard, in mock earnestness, professed his preference for  the more elegant title “beverage host,” and it was thus that he frequently introduced himself to new patrons freshly perched at the long and beautifully appointed bar of the famously successful Beech Tree and Basswood Inn.

  The bar contained perhaps 20 well-padded stools whose fabric colors and pattern matched those of the gold, brown and muted orange of the bartenders’ uniform vests.  Black, half-Windsor-knotted ties, white broadcloth shirts with spread collars, black trousers and shoes completed the ensemble of each wearer.

The “bar-backs” dressed the same, while enjoying none of the adulation accorded the experienced, full bartenders.  A bar-back was the name given the “apprentices” who stocked the bottled beer and soft drink coolers, fetched ice, refilled bar fruit containers, changed the empty beer barrels for fresh ones, and performed other back-up tasks for the talented and often amazingly, acrobatically skilled bartenders.

The above image

represents a "Barback," though

the blue hair is not typical

Daytime bar-backs, however, were placed in a somewhat different caste.  Inasmuch as the day crew did not endure quite the same frenzied pace as that of the night staff; the day man doubled as bartender.  Almost instantly nicknamed “Jack the Bar-back,” better known to his family and friends as Jack Rosnov, he was an experienced bartender, relegated to the lesser status given his short tenure on the job.  Despite his newness, and his age – 25 years old on this fine June day in 1969 -- just a month and a half into the job, Jack enjoyed a kind of special relationship with Leonard.  They were similarly endowed, each having a talent for wit and humor, silliness too, and as such became almost instant friends and confidants.  Jack often seized an opportunity for a short break at this juncture in the early going of the daytime, pre-opening routine, studying the routine, the “dance” that Leonard employed each day with the bottles and the back bar, marveling at the latter’s skill and speed.  

Jack abruptly ended the break and sprang back to life and the appearance of industrious briskness, almost seamlessly, as the big boss, the general manager, the highly regarded “czar” of the Beech Tree and Basswood Inn entered and placed himself at Leonard’s end of the long bar.  Jack had never met the man formally, though he knew this was the magnificently tailored, barbered and elegantly appareled Herbert Oswaldo Cruikshank, the “Oswaldo” an homage, Leonard told Jack on a rare quiet mid-morning as the two chatted aimlessly, to a distant but wealthy relative of Latino descent.  Leonard acknowledged the GM with a slight smile and a nod, while completing the bottle placement exercise.   He next began the daily task of placing a great quantity of lemons and limes in almost militarily aligned formations on the bar, strategically situated on either side of a wooden cutting board upon which he had placed two razor-sharpened, superbly polished knives.  Cruikshank sat silently, posed in a respectful stillness, until Leonard was at last facing forward, ready to begin another daily chore, that of coring lemons for twists, and then slicing the limes that would adorn the margaritas and Cuba libras of drinkers whose elbows would bend and flex throughout the afternoon and evening in growing appreciation.

An image of an angry woman, shown
here to represent Leonard's angry wife whom
we'll meet in another chapter, possibly!

“Leonard,” began Cruikshank, “How are you, today?  Everything going well?”

“I’m fine.  Everything’s OK,” said Leonard with a nod and a broader smile.

Cruikshank asked, “Listen, do you think your wife will come in today?  I mean, do you have any reason to expect that she’ll come here today?”

“Oh, Herbie, good god no.  Hell no.  I sure don’t think so.  She’s got to have learned her lesson by now!”  Leonard spoke confidently, with conviction.  Only one person in Leonard’s sphere of family, friends and acquaintances called him “Lenny.”  To everyone else he was always “Leonard,” the name he obviously preferred.  By contrast, and this took Jack by surprise, Leonard called the feared and revered Mr. Cruikshank, “Herbie.”  

Jack later learned from him that Leonard and “Herbie” were close, truly intimate friends of many years’ standing.  Only Leonard dared call him “Herbie,” and then only when both men thought they were alone, out of earshot of any hotel staff personnel.  Jack’s presence during the conversation was almost surreptitious, though not by design, he being in the darkened barroom and partially concealed by an open cooler door.  Neither of the two speakers glanced his way, and Jack hurriedly finished that portion of his re-stocking duties, and left the bar, retreating to the lower regions of the inn and its commodious storage facilities.   (To be Continued...  Possibly!)

[Special Note:    Please be apprised that the perpetrator -- false modesty eschewed for the moment -- has received his first royalty payments for his Illustrated Children's Book, "An Awful Beautiful Day  (Or...  Me and My Chicken Pox!)".   (Illustrated by sibling, Kris!)  Those avid fans of fine literature may wish to purchase the aforementioned book at its quite reasonable cost.  Please visit...   www.amazon.com ...and key "Joel Kriofske" in the search window o reach the author's entire canon of literary achievements.   Profound and sincere thanks to one and all!] 

Humbly Submitted 08-30-18 -- Joel K.