Last Call

by Paula Matter

  Actually, my job was my therapy. I had a reason to get out of bed every day. The money sucked, but at least it was money coming in. I knew how fortunate I was to have a job, especially in this small town. I liked most of the people, even though I had too many bosses (the entire VFW board of directors), and the hours were good.

  My house, a huge dumpy Victorian duplex, stood on the corner. I parked my trusty paid-for Honda in the driveway, wishing for the millionth time that street parking was permitted. Nothing to do but walk all the way around to the front door. Blustery March winds had loosened the blue tarp covering the porch roof—I’d have to climb up there again tomorrow and put some more bricks down.

  My tenant Michael’s side of the house was dark, and the only light on my side came from the blinking red light of my answering machine. Good news: The electric company hadn’t turned off my power yet. Bad news: I had a hunch the four new messages were from bill collectors. This was one of those times when I wished there really was treasure buried somewhere in my house. Too bad it was only a rumor. I tossed my keys into the bowl on my secretary desk and turned off the machine. I flipped the light switch and headed upstairs.

  My cherished Paris Leaf chandelier lit up the staircase and upstairs hallway. A birthday gift from Rob, it was a treasure I’d never sell, no matter how desperate my finances. If I ever finished renovations to the point where I could sell this place, the chandelier was going with me. I walked past the stacks of boxes in the hallway. They looked about ready to topple over.

  Exhausted as I was, I headed to the back of the house to brush my teeth. My bathroom, my sanctuary. With the exception of the cheap toilet, it was the only room that had been totally renovated on the upstairs side. I’d insisted on it when Ron bought this old dump. We’d planned on doing our bedroom next.

  Yeah. Make plans and God laughs.

  Too damn early Saturday morning, the phone woke me. This had better be important.

  “Hey, Maggie, good news. We’ve hired another bartender and she’ll work your shift tonight. Take the night off,” the voice of Sam Keller, my favorite boss, said in my ear.

  I plopped my head back on my pillow. “Finally.” I looked over at the clock. Almost ten. “Hey, wait, Sam. Who’s going to train her? Has she tended bar before? In a club? Is she going to call in sick every time she has a hangover or a hangnail? When—”

  “Whoa! Yes, she’s experienced. She’s new to town and can start work immediately. Pete brought her over this morning. She’s filling out the job application now. I’ll train her like I trained you. If she does okay tonight, you can plan on taking tomorrow off too. I’ll call you later.”

  I hung up the phone and rolled over, all ready to be lazy for the rest of the morning. Maybe even the whole day. This would be my first Saturday night off in five years, and if she worked tomorrow, that’d make two nights off in a row. A whole weekend off.

  Then it hit me. Pete. Brought who over this morning? The last woman I’d seen him with was Little Miss Bimbo. Remembering her black eye, I immediately felt ashamed for calling her that. In the bathroom, she had seemed much less bimboish. Bimbo-y? Bimboie?

  I also felt bad because I never got Pete alone to ask him about her. They’d had one drink and left. Abby was pretty young for Pete—late twenties/early thirties, compared to his forty-something. Maybe I’d find out more when I went to the club later to pick up my paycheck.

  Another thought crept in. What if Abby turned out great and took my hours from me? The members would probably love having a pretty young thing behind the bar for a change. No way could I afford to lose this job. I’d been lucky last year when the bosses had shortened the club’s hours to save money. In their infinite wisdom, they cut the daytime hours—and the daytime bartender—leaving me to continue working the 4:30-to-midnight shift. Cleaning Pam and Diane’s houses helped, but I still couldn’t seem to make ends meet. Maybe I should relent and talk to Diane about selling Avon. I had to get out from under all this debt.

  Damn it, Rob. I punched the empty pillow next to me.

  I told myself to quit whining and get up. I stripped the bedsheets, tossed them into the laundry basket piled high with dirty clothes, and dragged it down the hallway to the kitchen. Hoping there was a saint in charge of old appliances, I whispered a prayer and turned the dial on the harvest gold washer. Water gurgled into the tub, and I sent up a thanks.

  Not my favorite room, I spent as little time as possible in the kitchen. My microwave and Mr. Coffee sat on the chipped Formica countertop. The avocado refrigerator hummed quietly, thank God, in the corner. Next to it sat built-in bookshelves crammed with medical textbooks and cookbooks left from when the hospital owned the house. Another item to add to my growing to-do list: Get rid of all those books and replace them with my own favorites, which were still packed in boxes. An old desk with my even older computer was on the other side of the room.

  Between loads of laundry, I tackled the rest of the housecleaning chores. Considering I don’t use the other rooms, that left making the bed and cleaning the bathroom. After scrubbing the bathtub until it sparkled, I was tempted to take a nice, long, hot bath, but I was anxious to get to the club. I had to deposit my paycheck fast. This week I was playing Beat the Bank with the electric company. I cleaned myself up enough to be presentable, brushed my hair, tied it back with a scrunchie, and I was ready. Time to find out if it was Little Miss Bimbo working behind my bar.

  I locked my front door, grabbed the garbage bag to bring out to the bin, and ran into Michael and Chris as they were going in their side door. Close to the driveway, my tenants were fortunate to have the side porch. They didn’t have to go all the way around to their front door to get in. Michael Bradley reminded me of a German shepherd. His always-alert eyes were the darkest brown I had ever seen with thick no-man-should-have eyelashes. A touch of silver at his temples reminded me how men age much more gracefully than women.

  “On your way to work?” he asked.

  Before I could answer him, Chris pinched my arm. Only ten years old, Michael’s daughter was my height—and she’s an average-sized kid. I imagined it wouldn’t take long for her to shoot up past five foot two.

  “Hey, what’d you do that for?”

  “You’re not wearing green, so I get to pinch you,” she explained. “It’s St. Patrick’s Day, Maggie!”

  “Okay, here’s the deal. On your birthday I get to give you an extra smack. Fair enough?”

  Chris giggled and nodded, her ponytail, the color of butterscotch, swinging. “Sure. As long as you give me a good present.”

  “Now, to answer your question”—I turned to Michael—“no. They finally hired another bartender. I’m going in now to get my check.”

  “And to check out the new bartender?” He grinned.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about him knowing me so well after only a few months, so I shrugged and said, “Leave it to a PI to figure out my motives.”

  “What can I say? You’re easy.”

  “Hey, I’m not as easy as I used to be.” I regretted it as soon as the words were out of my mouth. I looked at Chris. Was ten too young to catch the innuendo? I knew very little about kids. “Sorry,” I said to Michael, and pointed at my mouth. “Sometimes stuff just comes out.” I was relieved when he smiled, but still kicked myself as I walked to my car.

  The club was pretty full by the time I got there after five. Not surprised to see Abby with Sam behind the bar, I said hello to everyone, signed the daily book, and grabbed the only empty stool. Which was next to Jack Hoffman.

  “Can’t stay away from this place, Maggie?” Sam asked. “Glad you came in. This is Abby.”

  “Hi, hon. We met last night, Sam.” She’d replaced her sunglasses with thick smears of foundation and powder.

  “Hi, Maggie, nice to see you.” Abby tucked strands of shiny black hair behind an ear.

  “Sam, can I get my
check, please?” He went to his office to get it while Abby and I checked each other out. Judging by her bright-green blouse and the dangling leprechaun earrings, she had known it was St. Patrick’s Day. Score a point for her.

  “Sure would be a nice place to open a bar,” a voice hollered.

  I looked down at the other end of the bar and saw a few empty beer mugs lined up. Abby didn’t budge, so I said, “Uh, hon, you’ve got some thirsty customers down there.”

  “Oh, sure,” she said and moved on down to serve them.

  “She won’t last long, I tell you that right now. Too damn slow.” This from Jack, who never had anything good to say about anybody. I agreed, but I sure wasn’t going to let him know that. I shrugged.

  “And next time,” he continued, “she’d better not give me any of that damn green beer. Tastes awful. Makes it bitter. I only drank this one ’cause I wanted to be a good sport.”

  Good sport, my ass. He probably drank half his beer before looking at it. I shrugged again. I knew there was no taste to green food coloring, but I wasn’t going to waste my time arguing with him. Fortunately, Sam returned and handed me my paycheck. I took it, thanked him, slid off the barstool, and got the hell out of there. I looked forward to a Saturday night off losing myself in Dennis Lehane’s latest novel while munching on potato chips and M&Ms.

  The next morning the phone woke me up again. Only eight thirty this time. I growled a hello.

  “Maggie, it’s me.”

  Oh, yeah, like that was real helpful. “Who?” I mumbled.

  “Sam. Listen. We got a problem. Bobby Lee’s here and may want to talk to you. Come straight over, okay? Don’t take time to stop at the cemetery.”

  That woke me up. Boss number one mentioning the police and me in the same sentence couldn’t be good.

  “Explain, please.”

  He did and I nearly dropped the phone.

  Two

  I pulled my heap of a Honda into the VFW parking lot and saw that the police sure were there. Along with Sam and my three other illustrious VFW bosses, Pete, and Jack Hoffman’s truck. Poor Jack. I didn’t like him, but I never wished him dead.

  I stayed in my car waiting for my legs to stop shaking. I remembered too well the last time I’d seen Bobby Lee, North DeSoto’s police chief. Two years had done nothing to diminish the memory. I hadn’t been happy then either, but at least there’d been a reason for me to be involved. Unlike today. But since Sam’s the only boss I actually try to obey, here I was. I put on my big girl panties and got out of the car. I waved at Sam and Pete. Both turned their heads away, not waving back. Weird. Whatever.

  The chief broke away from the huddle of men and waddled over to me. He’d always reminded me of the Michelin Man.

  “Morning, Maggie.” Bobby Lee tipped his Jacksonville Jaguars ball cap at me. “How you been?”

  “Chief.” No way would I exchange pleasantries with this man. “Why am I here?”

  “Well, I know Sam called you to come down, but I don’t see as how you can be much help. You didn’t work last night, ain’t that right?”

  I nodded. “The new girl, Abby, worked.” Time for him to answer my questions for a change. “How did Jack die?”

  “Sam didn’t tell you?”

  I gritted my teeth. “No, that’s why I’m asking. He told me to get on down here, that you might want to talk to me. I was half asleep when he called, and I’m barely awake now. Can we go inside so I can get some coffee?”

  “Okay. Inside ain’t the crime scene.”

  “Crime scene? All Sam told me was Jack was found this morning in his truck, that he had died. It wasn’t a heart attack or something?” I looked over at Jack’s truck as one of North DeSoto’s finest wrapped yellow crime scene tape around it. I turned my attention back to Bobby Lee.

  “I don’t reckon, not with all that blood, but we’ll have to wait and see what Doc has to say when he’s done looking at the body. We’ll know more after a bit.”

  The body. All that blood. Goose bumps broke out on my arms despite the mugginess of the morning. I brushed them away and followed the men into the club.

  We filled up one end of the L-shaped bar. Nobody sat next to me, and I felt like a leper. I hadn’t taken time to shower, but still.

  Wondering why the hell I was there, I knew better than to ask so I kept my mouth shut and waited. Being the gentleman he is, Sam filled my coffee cup first and I watched as he served the others. Kevin Beamer, president of the corporation and youngest officer of the group, winked at me. Kevin was my best-looking boss—his hair was still full and naturally dark, and he had gorgeous cobalt blue eyes. No matter the time of day or night, Kevin seemed to have a five o’clock shadow. He pushed his motorcycle helmet aside to give room for Sam to fill his cup. I smiled back. At least he was being friendly.

  Tapping his fingers impatiently on the bar, quartermaster JC Nelson bounced on the last barstool. With those initials, he thinks he’s God. The others go along with him because he’s in charge of the money. I merely tolerated him because he signs my paycheck. Short but twice the width of his wife, Pam, JC reminded me of the Tasmanian Devil. Loud and always on the move like a tiny tornado. I call him Taz behind his back. Sam gets a kick out of it.

  Dick Reid, commander of the post and JC’s sidekick, looked like he’d rather be drinking a Bud. I was pretty sure he’d already had a few even at this time of the morning. A bit more quiet and older than JC, Dick looked like KFC’s Colonel Sanders without the southern gentleman charm. I didn’t need to come up with a nickname for Dick. His real name fit perfectly.

  I hated having all these bosses, but there it was. Someone had to run this VFW and these guys were the ones to get re-elected each year. Year after year after year. They liked the power, and none of the other members wanted the jobs.

  JC stood, pushed his stool away from the bar, and in his three-pack-a-day voice, spoke up. “Let’s get this show on the road. I have to open the store in forty-five minutes.” He pulled his stool back to the bar and sat down. He reminded me of a jack-in-the-box.

  Jack. Oh, man. Poor Jack.

  Taking a sip of coffee, Chief Bobby Lee held up one finger to quiet JC. Not the finger I would’ve used, but it worked because JC didn’t say anything more. “Sam?” Bobby Lee hollered.

  “Be out in a sec. Making another pot,” Sam answered. A minute later he came out of the kitchen. I moved my purse from the stool next to me to make room, but he sat down next to Kevin instead. What the hell? I lowered my head and discreetly sniffed my armpit. Seemed okay.

  “Okay, now.” Bobby Lee reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a little notebook and a ballpoint pen. “Who found Jack and what time was it?”

  JC jumped up again as if he had a spring up his ass. I guess it was better than the bug that’s usually there.

  “Sam did. Dick and I both showed up about seven o’clock this morning and saw Jack’s truck. We didn’t think anything of it, and came on in as usual. When Sam got here a half hour later, he looked in the truck and saw Jack.”

  I looked over at Sam and noticed his red eyes. Had he been crying? Over Jack’s death? Weird. Maybe finding a dead body is what upset or bothered him.

  Dick nodded. “That’s right, Bobby Lee, just like JC says. We figured Jack had left his truck here last night and walked home. He did that a lot, y’know. That’s why we didn’t look.”

  Bobby Lee snorted, then said, “I’m the one who told him to do that. Too dangerous for him drinking all night then driving home when he lives less than a mile away. Safer for him and the community to walk.”

  “Looks like he wasn’t so safe this time,” Kevin said. “How was he killed, Bobby Lee? You saw him before the ambulance took him away.”

  The police chief scratched his balding head. “I ain’t at liberty to say just yet. We’ll know more after Doc’s done with him. Jack could be
a real mean cuss at times, but shoot, he survived all these years before getting himself murdered. Do any of y’all know who might’ve had it in for him?”

  All eyes turned toward me. What the hell? Guess the time had come for me to stop keeping my mouth shut. “Why are y’all looking at me? You think I killed Jack? That’s—”

  Bobby Lee’s radio crackled, interrupting me. He got up from the bar and moved several feet away. He spoke into his radio. “Go ahead.” He didn’t move far enough away because we all heard the loud voice answering back. Bobby Lee cringed and didn’t have time to adjust the volume.

  “Chief? Yeah. Heard from Doc Shenberger and he says after cleaning up the body, he found two stab wounds. One in the belly, the other in his left thigh. Victim had been dead maybe four to eight hours when he was found. Doc’s not positive on the time yet, but says that should be about right. He’ll know more later and send you the autopsy report.”

  “Copy.” Bobby Lee clicked off the radio. He sat back down, wrote a few lines in his notebook, then looked up at all of us. “Well, I reckon y’all heard that. Someone stabbed Jack Hoffman sometime early this morning.”

  Before any of them could look at me the way they had earlier, I spoke up. “It wasn’t me. I was home in bed early this morning. Alone as usual.” God, what an incredibly stupid thing for me to say.

  “Uh, Maggie, I’m pretty sure the chief here doesn’t suspect any of us. We got called in to help, not to provide alibis.”

  “That’s not necessarily so, Kevin,” Bobby Lee replied. “I have to suspect everyone until I can prove differently. I’m not saying any of you did it, or that any of you had reason to do it. But y’all knew Jack and saw him more than most of us in town.”

  A lot of heads nodded. Sam said, “Yeah, you got that right, Bobby Lee. This was a second home to Jack. He was in every day as soon as we opened and always stayed until closing.”