Murder 5 – Oren Walsh
When Oren Walsh walked into the pub that night, I couldn’t look away. But I couldn’t look directly at him either. I was stuck in this awkward place that left me fumbling with a towel while pretending to dry beer pitchers behind the bar. And I was caught between wanting to ask him 20 questions and wanting to smack him on the head.
“Hey Red!” I heard someone call from the group of 10-12 of them who entered the pub, many still wearing their Parker’s Pizza shirts. I looked up and smiled. Turns out that neither being an adult nor having ‘dark’ red hair provides sanctuary from the “red head” jokes in one’s life.
“I’ll help you tend bar,” Larry offered, quickly jumping up and joining me behind the bar as the crowd approached for drinks. He’s not on payroll, but he knows the routine so I didn’t object.
“How are you, Paige?” said a soft voice.
I looked up and was greeted with a sweet, lopsided grin. Blue eyes. Gentle brown hair. Flushed skin. Puffy navy blue down jacket. Exposed T-shirt with pizza sauce smudges. Longing. Regret. Angst. Love?
“Hi, Oren.” I mentally closed the flood gate. “Could be worse.” I could be naked in the middle of a frozen tundra. “Yourself?”
“The same.” He paused and then pointed toward my computer. “Still writing? That’s really great, Paige…”
I nodded, “Yeah, I’m taking a couple of writing classes at Hampshire Community. Figured you’re never too old to start.”
He laughed, his sweet eyes lighting up.
“Guinness?” I asked and he nodded.
“What else are you working on?” He was always interested in my life.
“Well…classes don’t start again until next week, so in the meantime I’ve been keeping busy writing a blog. Other than that, just working. Hanging out.” And the award for most-awkward small talk goes to Paige O’Sullivan.
“What’s your blog?” He asked, excited.
Damn. Why did I mention my blog? “It’s not really ready for prime-time,” I tried to explain. “Just a diary of stuff. What about you? What’s new?”
Oren didn’t push. “I bet it’s great, Paige. Let me know when you’re ready for me to read it.” Oren took the Guinness. “Not too much going on here. Helping out at Parker’s until my dad heals.” (A car accident recently gave Oren’s dad two broken legs.)
“I’m really sorry, Oren. I just heard…”
“No, please, he’s fine. He was lucky. What about you – you okay? I figured you heard what happened…Carolee Cartt…?”
“Yeah, I’m definitely okay.” I saw a few patrons glance toward us. “It’s the families of the victims we should be worried about, not me.”
A glass shattered at the other end of the bar, bringing me back to the reality of a noisy business. Larry yelled over. “Sorry, Paige! I was trying to slide it to someone, but he didn’t catch it. I’ll clean it up.” There were now 20 people seemingly waiting for drinks at his end of the bar. The pizza staff must have called their friends.
“Hey,” I looked at Oren. “I should get back to the beer. Duty calls.”
He looked disappointed, but smiled. “No problem. Maybe we can chat again when things quiet down?”
“Yeah, okay…” I was hesitant, but not because I had any idea that night would be anything but quiet.
