Last Call

by Paula Matter

  Copyright Information

  Last Call © 2018 by Paula Matter.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2018

  E-book ISBN: 9780738757926

  Book format by Cassie Willett

  Cover design by Shira Atakpu

  Cover images: istockphoto.com/182177971/nico_blue

  istockphoto.com/175432672/FrankvandenBergh

  shutterstock.com/238811824/Everett Historical

  Editing by Nicole Nugent

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Matter, Paula, author.

  Title: Last call : a Maggie Lewis mystery / Paula Matter.

  Description: Woodbury, Minnesota : Midnight Ink, [2018] | Series: A Maggie

  Lewis mystery

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017058664 (print) | LCCN 2017059857 (ebook) | ISBN

  9780738757926 | ISBN 9780738757827 (alk. paper)

  Subjects: LCSH: Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3613.A8438 (ebook) | LCC PS3613.A8438 L37 2018 (print)

  | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017058664

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Midnight Ink

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For Mom, who didn’t consider my early scribbles a waste of paper.

  If you knew Ann “Tiny” Peres, you know why that’s meaningful.

  One

  Refusing a ride back to the VFW was maybe the stupidest thing I’d done that morning. But if Bobby Lee thought I was riding in the backseat of his police cruiser twice in one day, he had another thing coming. And now my stubborn streak was proving costly. Not moneywise, thank God, but there I stood in the town square outside the North DeSoto Police Department, stranded because I wouldn’t accept the chief’s offer of a ride.

  I sure couldn’t afford a cab, no buses ran on Sundays, and returning to the police station with my tail between my legs was not going to happen. I had a choice: walk three miles to the club and my car, or one mile in the other direction to get to my house. I’d figure out later how to get to work.

  Work. All of this—the murder, my arrest—may have started at work two nights ago.

  I lost count of how many times I threatened to pull the damn plug.

  The jukebox plug, that is. From the time I opened at five o’clock, Sinatra and Crosby had crooned until seven. Now, thanks to the younger working crowd converging with the older retired guys, the Rolling Stones blasted from the speakers. For the past three hours, I’d listened to my customers complain about each other.

  Maggie, turn up the lights. Maggie, it’s too bright in here. Maggie, lower the volume. Maggie, I can’t even hear my song.

  Another typical Friday night at the North DeSoto VFW. I’m Maggie. Welcome to my world.

  All I could do was fiddle with the dimmer switch and the volume control, pour beer, sell gambling tickets, remind them to sign the daily book, smile, laugh, tell jokes, and generally try to keep everybody happy. Not easy because they simply could not play nice together. Totally up to me to show my customers a good time. So to speak.

  Their bickering wasn’t helping me with my recent goal to be nicer. Nothing worse than a grumpy bartender when people are out for a good time. I needed to take action, turn the mood around. I ducked into the little kitchen behind the bar, pulled out a strip of clear plastic wrap, cut it to the right size, then hurried back to the bar. Just in time. My next victim got up from his bar stool and walked to the restroom. Scott Nelson had left a half-full glass of beer on the bar and I quickly confiscated it. Unfortunately, Scott had also left a burning cigarette butt in his ashtray. I stamped it out and emptied the ashtray in the metal bucket I keep behind the bar.

  I stretched the clear wrap over the top of the glass, smoothed down the edges, and set it back on the coaster. Chuckles, whispers, and elbow nudging from the folks sitting close by. Except for my two least favorite customers: Jack Hoffman and Pam Nelson.

  Pam, Scott’s mother, is the Ladies Auxiliary president. She reminded me of a ferret. If ferrets were tall, dyed their hair, and got their nails done every week.

  Jack Hoffman sat next to her. Jack, a Korean War vet who still wore the Marine buzz cut, had been mouthing off all night worse than usual, and scribbling in his little notebook. His big ears and beady little eyes resembled an opossum.

  I ignored the dirty looks they both gave me. While I washed the glasses, I watched Scott sit back on his bar stool. He raised his glass to his lips and bam! Beer sloshed against the cellophane. Everyone—excluding Pam and Jack, who scribbled in his notebook—laughed.

  “Got me again, Maggie,” Scott said. He peeled the wrap off his glass, crumbled it up, and threw it at me. “Good one. At least that was better than the ginger ale trick.”

  I’d become very good at making watered-down ginger ale look like beer. In my five years at the VFW, I’d played these tricks on most of the members. Fortunately, they were pretty good sports and liked watching others fall for the gags. Plus, my own grumpiness eased up by making others laugh. Win-win.

  But it was ten o’clock and I’d been on my feet for five and a half hours. I needed a break. On tiptoes, I reached for the cord of the bell hanging on the wall.

  Before I got the chance to pull it, Pete Snyder, our resident flirt and general womanizer, came in with another one of his young ladies. Seems each week he’s with a different one. Some of the girls he’s brought in made me wonder if he’s running some kind of shelter for wayward souls of north Florida. I’ve always assumed he picks them up along his delivery route. Lots of women for a trucker to meet between Pensacola and Jacksonville. As far as I knew, he’d gone through all the available ladies here in tiny North DeSoto. Had to give him credit, though: he’d never hit on me. I guessed he stayed away from short middle-aged widows. Well, middle-aged if I make it to ninety-two. While he signed the daily book, I turned away from the bell and poured his usual glass of Coors Light.

  That’s the nice thing about working in a club—every night it’s the same people drinking the same drinks. It can also b
e the worst thing—serving the same drinks to the same people. Night after night, ad nauseam.

  “Hey, Pete, how’s it going?” I set the glass of beer in front of him.

  “Hi, Maggie, thanks.” Turning to his friend, he said, “This is Abby Kwon. Abby, this is Maggie, my favorite bartender—the one I told you about.”

  I smiled at Abby and said, “I’m the only bartender, hon. That’s why I’m his favorite. Now, what can I get you?”

  Tall and lithe, with shoulder-length silky black hair, she clung to Pete’s arm and softly asked for a virgin frozen strawberry daiquiri. I looked up at Pete, hoping he’d set her straight on how things worked here. No frozen drinks because my bosses were too cheap to buy a blender. Hell, I couldn’t even get them to buy fresh limes for the occasional gin and tonics.

  I wondered why Abby wore sunglasses. At the moment, the lights in the club were pretty dim. The next words out of her mouth made me question her own dimness.

  “Oh, okay. How about a Virgin Mary—no pepper, Worcestershire, or hot sauce.”

  Alrighty then. She was asking for a friggin’ glass of tomato juice. I smiled at the bimbo and added a straw to her drink. “Here you go, hon.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Petey, where’s the ladies’ room?”

  Ma’am? I bit my tongue while Pete pointed her in the right direction. We both watched her walk away. She reminded me of a panther with her shiny black hair and gracefulness.

  “Sheesh, Petey, where’d you find this one?”

  “Aw, c’mon, Maggie.” He ran his fingers through his short highlighted blond hair and grinned. “She’s not used to places like this.”

  Uh-oh. That was sure to get things going.

  Sure enough, Jack Hoffman sat up and took notice. He narrowed his already beady little eyes and said, “What? We’re not good enough for her?”

  Pete rolled his eyes. He pulled a dollar out of his wallet and handed it to me. “All I meant was because of her age, Abby’s probably used to younger crowds. Maggie, get Jack a beer on me, willya?” He leaned over and whispered, “Bet that’ll be going in his little book, huh? Probably say that you’re serving minors.” He winked, took his drinks, and sat down at a nearby table.

  “Here you go, Jack, this one’s on Pete. Now, leave him alone, okay?” I tossed a plastic beer chip in front of him. Maybe a free beer would shut him up. I was wrong.

  “This ain’t no bar or nightclub, y’know,” Jack snorted. “Damn women anyway. Never should’ve let ’em join. It was better when only men belonged. Back when I was Commander, things were done right. Everybody knew what was going on, we trusted each other, did right by each other. Too many funny things going on around here now.” He mumbled a bit more, but I stopped listening. Jack Hoffman. Leave off the last syllable and the name fits. I remembered too well the last time Jack had stirred up trouble. Him and those stupid notebooks of his.

  “Mr. Hoffman, there’s lots of women in the military nowadays,” Scott piped up. “Times have changed.”

  Jack waved his hand as if to shoo Scott away. Hunched over his spiral notebook, he wrote something down that I’m sure would eventually get back to me. Jack brought his notebook to the monthly board of director meetings and, like a little tattletale, told the officers about all the so-called infractions committed in the club. Silly things like someone letting the F-word slip, or accidentally breaking a glass, or if I gave away a free beer. He even kept track of how much big winners won at gambling and who won the daily book.

  Time for my break. I pulled on the bell cord and clanged it a couple times.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, don’t everybody jump at once, but who wants to play bartender for ten minutes? Give a girl a much needed break?”

  “Since I’m the only one not drinking alcohol, it would be up to me now, wouldn’t it?” Pam said. She set her can of diet soda down and came around, stashing her purse on the shelf next to mine. Hands on her scrawny hips, Pam looked miffed. I had no idea why since she’d covered for me lots of times, but she sure seemed tenser than usual. Whatever.

  “Okay, kids, Pam’s in charge. Y’all play nice.” I double-checked that everyone had fresh drinks in front of them, then hightailed it into the restroom where I counted to ten twenty-seven times.

  I do this nightly, and it gets me through the rest of my shift unscathed. Inside the restroom, I could escape the thwack of darts, the click clack of balls on the pool table, the sudden roars of victory or groans of defeat, Mick Jagger going on about not getting any satisfaction.

  Still, none of that compared to when someone played “Unchained Melody” by the Righteous Brothers earlier. Our song.

  Terrific. Here came the tears. I wished I could get through one entire day without bawling. It’d been two years. I pulled the scrunchie from my hair and laid it on the sink. I turned on the faucet and splashed water on my face. I rubbed my sore jaw, trying to loosen the fake-smile muscles. Working behind the bar was like being on stage, one big performance. I stuck out my tongue at my reflection.

  “You okay?”

  Oh, crap. Little Miss Bimbo stood behind me. She must’ve been in one of the stalls the whole time. I dried my face, balled up the paper towel, and slam dunked it. I restrained myself from kicking the metal trash basket.

  “Yeah, I’m just dandy, hon. Shouldn’t you be out there with Pete?” I turned to face her. That was when I noticed the shiner. Her entire right eye was puffed up and bruised. “Sheesh, hon, what happened to you?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine.” She put on her sunglasses and headed toward the door.

  “Hey, hold on.” I reached out to grab her arm. “Are you okay?”

  “I said I was fine.” The door swung shut, leaving me alone in the room.

  Okie dokie. Poor kid. I’d ask Pete later what her story was, if I could do anything.

  My ten quiet minutes were up, so I plastered a smile on my face and headed back to work. The smell of the popcorn I’d made and passed around earlier still hung in the air. The guys who’d been playing darts had settled at a table with their pitcher of beer. The jukebox, thank God, was silent. While his beer was still on the bar, his stool was empty, so it looked like I’d get a break from Jack’s whining.

  “Thanks, Pam, for watching the bar for me,” I said. I glanced at the sink. She hadn’t lifted a finger to wash the few remaining glasses. Typical.

  She looked me up and down and said, “Can’t you do something with your hair? Really, Maggie. Aren’t you a little old to wear your hair so long?” She took her purse and returned to her stool. I made a face at the wall, grabbed another scrunchie from my purse, and tied my hair back.

  Time for the daily book drawing. I reached under the shelf and hoisted the large, heavy snack tin up onto the bar. I removed the lid, dug my hand in the can, and swished the plastic chips around. “Okay, y’all ready?” A resounding “Hell yeah!” told me they were, indeed. I lugged the can to Pam since she was the only officer present at the bar.

  Pam pulled out a chip, looked at it, and handed it to me. I hollered, “Number 910!” A bunch of groans followed. Looked like we didn’t have a winner in the house. I replaced the chip and the can back under the shelf and looked through the member roster for the matching number. Not a familiar name, so he probably hadn’t signed in the day before. I checked anyway, of course, and confirmed my hunch. I wrote the name, his number, and a big fat “NO” on the whiteboard along with the amount he’d lost out on. $2,108.

  It was a pretty simple lottery meant to encourage members to visit the club. Each night a chip bearing a member’s number was drawn. If the winner had signed in the previous day, they got the pot. If the winner hadn’t signed in, the cash carried over. We hadn’t had anyone win in a few weeks, so the amount was slowly creeping up. I checked the daily book to make sure I’d remembered to sign my name for tomorrow night’s drawing. A couple thousand bucks would sure
come in handy. Hell, a couple hundred would be helpful. Although I’m not a veteran, Rob was. When we moved here five years ago from Miami, he joined and I signed up as a member of the Ladies Auxiliary. Shortly after that, an opening for bartender came up. I’d been working here ever since.

  Two hours later midnight finally rolled around, and I clanged the bell and announced last call. Shortly after everyone drank up and left, I restocked the cooler and cleaned up the bar. After closing out my drawer and cashing in my measly $36.82 in tips (who the hell left me two pennies?), I was finally out of there. Unfortunately, the only place to go was my house. I grabbed my purse and keys, tapped in my security code, jiggled the locked back doorknob, and hurried to my car. A streetlight in the parking lot provided some light, but I hated facing this time of night alone.

  Of course, I wasn’t truly alone considering Gussie, the creepy neighbor whose house bordered the VFW’s property. I’d never seen her in person, but as with my numerous bill collectors, we were on a first-name basis. Like clockwork, she called to complain about the noise on Band Night, the fourth Saturday of every month. I always stammered an apology, thanked her, and went about my business. I glanced over at Gussie’s house. I’m pretty sure I saw a curtain in her window move.

  Damn. Diane Reid had struck again. I yanked the flyer from my windshield wiper. This time it was a fundraising event for the local SPCA later this month. Bless her little heart of gold—there wasn’t a cause Diane couldn’t be talked into adopting. I slipped the flyer into my purse and backed out of the parking lot. Instead of getting on the faster main street, I took the long way, which was still only a ten-minute drive this time of night. The streets were quiet and empty, and I used this time to unwind. I turned onto River Walk Road, the street that took me behind the downtown square. The back of the courthouse, police station, and post office were to my right, and the magnificent St. Johns River to my left. Up ahead I could hear the soft gurgling natural spring in the little riverfront park. A couple of centuries ago, North DeSoto was popular among wealthy tourists looking for therapeutic relief from the natural spring. I’d have to try it one of these days. I could sure use some relief, and it’d be cheaper than therapy.