Last Call

by Libby Kirsch

  But now, with two dead bodies and a missing boyfriend, she had to face facts, at least to herself: who was she to say where Jason had been all night?

  “But what about Finch?” Elizabeth asked in a small voice. “I mean, you don’t know where Jason was this morning, right?”

  “But he wouldn’t have needed to break the locks at the Spot!” Janet shouted triumphantly. Both women jumped, and Mel shot her a dirty look when Hazel let out a cry, but she hardly noticed. “Right? He wouldn’t have needed to break the locks, he’d have just used his key. Jason is innocent.” Of killing Finch, at least, she added silently.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “What is this place?” Elizabeth asked, gingerly stepping out of Janet’s car and looking at the building in front of them.

  Mel climbed out cautiously, too, but for another reason. “There’s something gross on your car over here,” she called, using her elbow to slam the door. “It’s kind of smelly. And chunky. You don’t think the spray-painter got your car, too, do you?”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry about that,” Elizabeth said, looking back at the door with a grimace.

  “Onward,” Janet said, walking forward with purpose. “The Wheelbarrow is the closest competitor to the Spot. And I mean in distance, not quality,” she clarified as she pulled open the door. It was like walking into a smelly barn.

  “The Wheelbarrow? Oh, I get it, Wheel-bar-row. I guess it’s clever?” Elizabeth said, staring at the sign.

  “It’s more like trying to be clever and failing,” Mel said. “If your goal is to get the word ‘bar’ into your name, surely there are better choices?”

  “Like Barbershop?” Elizabeth offered. “It’s already known as a good place to meet up for dudes.”

  “Or Barracuda?” Janet said. “Angry, fast fish you don’t want to mess with.”

  “What about Embargo?” Mel said, and Janet and Elizabeth nodded appreciatively.

  “I like that,” Elizabeth said. “You get both ‘bar’ and ‘go’ into the name. It’s almost like some kind of sneaky mind-control thing.”

  “How did you end up with ‘the Spot’ as the name of your bar?” Mel asked, leading the way to three open seats at the counter.

  “Oh, we didn’t pick it. That’s what it was called when we bought it, and it was too expensive to order a new sign. First round’s on me, ladies.” She motioned for the bartender.

  The Wheelbarrow was as dimly lit as the Spot but had fewer tables, more shady characters, and not as many friendly faces—although that likely had more to do with the fact that they were surrounded by strangers, and were, perhaps, on the run from a killer.

  They ordered their drinks, and then Mel lowered her voice.

  “Assuming Jason is innocent of both murders—”

  “He is!” Janet said.

  “Then what are we going to do to prove it?” Mel asked.

  The bartender slid drinks in front of the women and Janet downed half of hers in one sip. “The morning Ike died—”

  “Ike Freeman?” the bartender asked, leaning against the counter. “I heard about that. Sad business, huh?”

  Janet wrinkled her nose and took another sip, smaller this time, before looking up. “Who’re you?”

  The first rule of being a bartender is stay out of the conversation unless you’re asked to be a part of it, but this guy seemed to be settling in for the long haul. He picked up a glass of beer from a lower shelf in front of him and took a sip. “I’m Carl. Longest-serving bartender here at the Wheelbarrow.”

  Mel rolled her eyes and leaned toward Janet and Elizabeth, attempting to cut Carl out of their conversation. “What happened that morning, Janet?”

  “I remember it well.” Carl rested both elbows on the bar top, and leaned closer still to the group of women. “His daughter had been in here just the night before. We haven’t seen her since. I’m sure she’s right torn up over it all.”

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes, but Janet’s stomach rolled over at his words and she leaned toward him. “Ike Freeman’s daughter was here the night he was killed?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess that’s right. She used to come every night, though, so that’s nothing newsworthy.”

  “Larsa Freeman?” Janet asked, just to make sure Ike didn’t have another daughter she’d never heard about before.

  “Yeah, you know her?”

  “Sure,” Janet answered. “Long, flowing hair? Drinks hot water with lemon?”

  “Nah—well, she’s earthy, sure, I’d even say kind of granola-y if you know what I mean, but she drinks straight-up gin. Sometimes with a squeeze of lemon. Mean as a snake, but a good tipper, which is more than I can say about most,” Carl said, looking darkly around the room. “That guy, in particular.” He pointed at a bearded man lurking at a corner booth. “I’m lucky if he leaves the penny behind on a five-ninety-nine drink special!”

  Elizabeth stared at Carl in shock, but before any of the women could speak, a whiny voice rose from the far end of the bar.

  “Can I getta beer over here or what? Carl? Can I getta—”

  “Sorry, ladies, duty calls,” Carl said, excusing himself and heading down the bar.

  The three women put their heads together.

  “Have you ever heard a bartender flap his lips like that before? Like a bird taking flight?” Elizabeth shook her head. “How is he still a bartender?”

  “I don’t care about that,” Janet said. “Do you believe him?”

  “No reason for him to lie,” Mel said.

  “So why did Larsa lie?” Janet asked. “She told the police she’d been home praying the night Ike was killed. She’s also said, over the last week, that she’s been sober for anywhere from one to three thousand days.” She looked at Carl, who was now pulling a pint of beer for the other customer. “But she was here the night Ike was murdered.”

  “Drinking,” Elizabeth added.

  “Drinking very close to the Spot,” Mel said. “What do you think? Four blocks?”

  “Three,” Janet said.

  “Much closer than your home, at any rate,” Elizabeth said.

  Janet turned toward her bartender. “Did you see or hear anything at all from the other person that night? The one the cop was helping to move Ike’s body?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “Not a thing. I guess I should have stuck around, tried to see who else was there—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You might be dead now if you’d done that!” Mel interrupted.

  “And you did enough. You got Ike’s car and got yourself out of there. There’s nothing to feel bad about!” Janet added.

  “Who’s your money on?” Mel asked.

  “For the killer? It seems murkier now than ever before!” Janet stared broodingly into her drink. “Abe, Benji, even Ollie’s father all seem like possibilities. Now you add Larsa to the mix? Ugh.”

  “What about O’Dell?” Elizabeth asked after taking a fortifying sip of her beer. “He’s so committed to proving Jason guilty. Isn’t that suspicious? What if he’s the one I heard, and Finch started asking too many questions?”

  “I don’t know. You didn’t see his face this morning when he saw Finch’s body. I’m not sure anyone, even in Hollywood, is that good of an actor,” Janet said with a shudder.

  “Suspicious, or just choosing the most likely suspect,” Mel answered, stirring her cosmopolitan with a tiny red straw. “Sometimes cops just get stuck in a groove and can’t see the forest for the trees, ya know?”

  Janet looked at Mel. “What does that mean?”

  Mel looked up. “Tell me this: does Jason have a record?”

  “A what?”

  “A criminal record,” Mel said. “Of any kind.”

  Now it was Janet’s turn to stir her drink. She finally heaved out a sigh. “Yes. A hacking conviction. He got a five-year suspended sentence when he was a teen. It was juvie court, and it was ages ago. He’s been off probation for years.”

  Mel nodded sagely. “And that’s all
it takes, sometimes, for a cop to turn their focus on someone. He’s probably the only one at the Spot with a criminal record, and that’s what made him a suspect in O’Dell’s eyes.”

  “Even Ike didn’t have one!” Janet said with a bitter laugh. “Where did you work before the Spot, Mel?” she asked. Elizabeth looked over with interest.

  “Nowhere,” Mel answered, taking a small sip of her pink drink. “Nowhere worth mentioning.”

  Janet narrowed her eyes, but she dropped it. She didn’t have time for another mystery just then.

  “We’re going to go ahead with our original plan, Elizabeth,” she said, sitting up straighter on the stool. “It happens tomorrow night at the Spot. We’ll call it a memorial for Finch and we’ll see what shakes loose when we have all the players—all together.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  After a restless night of sleep at her graffiti-covered home, where every noise made her pick up her baseball bat and rush the door, Janet padded through the kitchen to the makeshift coffee station parked just outside the bathroom door. She caught sight of herself in the mirror—dark circles under her eyes, frizzled hair, pale skin—and decided an extra-strong brew might help her feel human again. She reached for the pot and grabbed air. Looking down she muttered, “Those assholes.”

  “Which assholes?” Elizabeth asked, coming from the guest room on the other side of the bath.

  “Cops must have taken my coffeepot along with Jason’s computers as evidence on Sunday.” She shook her head at the injustice. What kind of unlawful activity could happen with a coffeepot? She was going to reread that subpoena. Just as soon as she was awake.

  “That’s just mean,” Elizabeth said, opening the refrigerator. “When’s this renovation supposed to wrap up?” she asked, motioning to the empty room behind them that used to be the kitchen.

  “When will it start seems to be the more appropriate question.”

  “Juice?”

  Janet sighed but took the cup Elizabeth offered.

  After a shower and another quick conference with Elizabeth and Mel, Janet set out to find Larsa, but not before sending a text to Jason with a very specific request. She didn’t know why he had taken himself out of the mix, but the fact that he’d been to Ollie’s parents’ house reassured her. If he wasn’t on her side anymore, he’d have been long gone. Instead, he was lurking, asking questions, just like she was. That meant something. It meant she could trust him.

  She drove directly away from civilization for fifteen minutes, from bright highways to shaded, two-lane country roads. She hadn’t passed another car for five minutes when she finally slowed to make a sharp turn onto a small driveway. The contrast between this cemetery and the one downtown was sharp. Though marked only with a plastic banner stuck into the ground like a For Sale sign, the Descendants of Valor Cemetery was naturally beautiful this time of year. Wildflowers burst from the ground, not yet wilted with the afternoon heat.

  She didn’t know exactly where Ike was buried, so she slowly drove down paths in a haphazard manner, meandering this way and that. She passed old tombstones and newer graves still mounded with fresh dirt. The parklike setting was peaceful and quiet.

  When she rounded the fourth or fifth bend in the road, she saw a lone figure among the grave markers and slowed to a crawl. The woman’s arms were raised, scarves circled her neck, and rosary beads swung from one hand; with the window down, Janet could hear strange, organ-heavy monk-chanting music rise above the sounds of nature.

  She parked her car and cut the engine, then raised her hand in greeting when Larsa looked over.

  The other woman pulled her scarves closer around her neck before reaching for the bottle of water at her feet.

  “How are you?” Janet called, not sure she wanted to get out of the car. The cemetery was deserted, and who knew what Larsa had in that big bag of hers?

  Larsa looked down at the speakers and reached over to lower the volume. Without the music, the sound of twittering birds and chirping crickets swelled like an orchestral crescendo.

  “I’m finding it far more peaceful here than at your bar,” Larsa said with a small smile. “Leaving that sin-soaked, booze-infested structure was probably the best thing I’ve done since my father died.”

  Janet stepped out of the car and stopped a few feet away from Larsa. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll be fine. I always manage to be just fine.”

  Larsa attempted to regain some of her serenity and raised her face back up to the sky.

  Janet bit her lip and considered the best way to approach what she’d come here to say. She needed Larsa’s help to pull off her plan that evening. Silence extended between them, with Larsa raising her hands skyward again and Janet trying to figure out how to proceed.

  “There are . . . new developments in your father’s murder.”

  Larsa’s eyes slowly opened and she lowered her hands. “What kind of developments?”

  Janet filled her in on Finch’s death.

  “Do they have any suspects?” she asked, studying Janet intently.

  Was that true concern, or something more sinister behind her eyes? Janet didn’t know—she didn’t trust her own impression of Larsa anymore. “No,” she answered. “As far as I know they’re still collecting evidence.”

  “Well, you know what the police say about that,” she said, almost to herself. “Evidence will only get you so far.”

  “What does that mean?” Janet asked sharply.

  Larsa smiled slightly and turned her music back up. “It just means evidence is amazingly accurate. As long as the police have something in their system to match it to. And I certainly hope they do this time. That’s all.” She looked quizzically back at Janet. “Is there anything else?”

  “I’ve invited some people to the bar tonight.” Larsa raised her eyebrows and she continued. “I was trying to figure out a way to help bring you closure,” Janet said, skating close to the truth so she could really sell the story. “I called some of the people you said you wanted to talk to—to apologize to—for your father’s actions. They want to talk to you, too. Maybe you could finally set down this burden your father left you with. Cross it off your list, you know? Ike’s problems shouldn’t follow you for your whole life.”

  Larsa closed her eyes. Janet was slightly downhill from the other woman, and the sunshine shimmering off her hair created a halo effect, a stark contrast to the tension Janet felt emanating from her.

  “I’m not sure I’m strong enough,” Larsa said after a long pause. Janet didn’t disagree. It would have been a difficult encounter for anyone, but Larsa’s hands shook slightly, and despite the cooler morning air, her temple was wet with sweat.

  “It might be uncomfortable, that’s true,” Janet agreed, “but I think it’s the best way to finally get peace. You don’t have to come tonight, but it might help . . . lighten the load.”

  Larsa was quiet for a while before finally nodding. “What time should I get there?”

  “Around eight o’clock.”

  She didn’t answer. After a few moments, Janet backed away and climbed into her car.

  One down, two to go.

  She had an idea of how to get Abe to the bar, but she wasn’t sure how she was going to entice Benji—if she could even find him.

  There was no time to worry about what-ifs, though. She had a lot of work to do, and the clock was marching steadily toward eight.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Janet swiped a dishrag across a pint glass as she stood behind the bar, staring at the door. She felt jittery again but shot Cindy Lou a dirty look when her bartender muttered, “It ain’t gettin’ drier than dry.” Janet set the clean—and dry—glass on the shelf and took another off the drying rack while Cindy Lou handed two bottles of beer over the counter to a customer.

  “That’ll be nine—” Janet started before the customer cut her off.

  “I just paid!” He shot a confused look at Cindy Lou, who nodded in agreement, and then tur
ned to take his drinks back to his table.

  “You’d better just settle right down, boss,” Cindy Lou said before walking to the other side of the bar to help another customer.

  Janet knew she was right, but it was nearing nine fifteen; Larsa was supposed to have shown up at eight, and Abe and Benji shortly after.

  Mel caught Janet’s eye from the door and shrugged before she turned back to check an ID.

  “Is this happening or not?” O’Dell asked from a corner seat at the bar right across from Janet.

  “I know Larsa wants to pay her respects,” she said, glancing over at the detective. Earlier that day, after speaking with Larsa, Janet had called O’Dell. He’d reluctantly agreed to come to the bar for the memorial candle lighting but clearly wasn’t happy to be kept waiting.

  Dressed in plain clothes, he hunched over a glass of sweet tea, looking hulking and out of place at the bar. Not only did he take up enough real estate for two people, but he was dressed more formally than her other patrons, and his sports coat hung open, revealing an underarm-holstered gun and handcuffs hanging from his belt loops.

  Janet couldn’t decide whether she was relieved that the other people she’d invited appeared to be no-shows. It was one thing to talk about getting all the kindling together and hoping for a spark. It was another to wait for the fire.

  “Any news on the . . . on the case?” she asked, and they both looked at the empty spot where the Beerador had stood. Janet rubbed some lingering fingerprint dust off the liquor shelves nearby with a bar towel.

  O’Dell grunted and took another sip of his tea.

  “Excuse me,” Nell said. O’Dell had to shift sideways to make room, and the older woman brushed against his arm as she squeezed into her regular seat at the bar. Her eyes lit up at the contact.

  Janet bit back a grin, then turned away to fill an order from a persistent customer. Business wasn’t booming as it had right after Ike’s murder, but it was busier than a usual Tuesday night.

  She lost track of time busing tables, keeping on top of dirty glassware, and filling drink orders. Eventually her phone vibrated on her hip.