by Paula Matter
One good part of living in North DeSoto was the weather. I’d learned to love the changing of the seasons. At least from summer to fall anyway. Temperatures dropped all the way down to the thirties or lower, and leaves actually changed colors on some trees. I sure didn’t miss the stifling heat and humidity of south Florida. Not that it didn’t get hot here, but it just felt different somehow.
The big old houses I passed were similar to my own. I wondered if any of them were in as bad a shape as mine. From the looks of the manicured lush green lawns, the trimmed hedges, and freshly mulched flower beds, I guessed not. Professionally landscaped. Rich people lived in these homes, and each house seemed more elaborate than the last. Maybe it was a matter of impressing the neighbors, keeping up with the Joneses.
That thought made me think of Diane Reid and how she always tried to keep up with JC and Pam Nelson. Crap. I’d have to call both of them and find out if they still wanted me to clean for them. I imagined Pam would have a problem having a suspected murderess as her cleaning lady. And if Pam dropped me, there’d be no reason for Diane to keep me.
I reached the corner of my block and I stopped and stood directly in front of the hospital that used to own our house. A five-story white building with a red Spanish-tiled roof, the hospital took up a half block. It housed an emergency room, a twenty-five-bed nursing home unit, the county morgue, an in-patient psychiatric ward, and sixty patient beds. I had learned all that while mindlessly flipping through the numerous pamphlets as I sat in the ER waiting room two years ago. The details were apparently burned in my brain.
I moved on. All I wanted was to sink into my nice clean tub and take a bubble bath. I’d figure out later what to do about getting a ride to the club for work that afternoon.
The red blinking display on the answering machine told me I had two waiting messages. The first was a hang-up at ten thirty. Let’s see. I would’ve been at Mickey D’s about that time. The second call was Sam telling me how sorry he was and that he’d work my shift that night. Well, good. Now I wouldn’t have to face any of those people. It also meant I was out some good old cash for one night. Sunday nights were usually slow, but a few bucks was better than no bucks. Numbness had totally taken over, and I let it. My legs felt like lead as I climbed the stairs.
Afraid I’d drown, I skipped the bubble bath. Instead I curled up on my bed with the library book I’d started the night before. After fifteen minutes, I was still on the same paragraph. Pretty bad when even one of Dennis Lehane’s PI novels couldn’t help me escape. Maybe watching some mindless television would help. I flipped through the limited channels my cheap little digital TV antenna provided probably a dozen times without seeing what was on.
Enough of this spaciness. I had to move, feel something. Feel anything. I turned off the TV, picked up my novel again. PI. That’s what I needed. And I happened to have one right next door.
I rushed downstairs. The double front doors were original to the house, and the doorbell rang only on Michael’s side. Rob and I had considered replacing the heavy oak doors, but we didn’t have the money. Instead we scraped away layers of paint and restored them back to their original beauty. After pushing the bell, Michael answered and moved aside to let me in.
I froze. I couldn’t go in there. Michael stared, waiting for me to move.
“I need advice from a PI. Can we talk out on the side porch?” I pointed to the torn blue tarp flapping over our heads. “It’ll be more comfortable.”
“Sure,” he answered. “I’ll tell Chris where I am. Be right out.”
Rob and I had never gotten around to joining the front and side porches. We’d longed for a nice wraparound porch. Without it, I had to walk all the way around the house to the side porch. I sat down on one of the rockers, something I hadn’t done in ages. Michael came out and sat in the rocker next to me.
“Okay, what’s up?” he said. “Go ahead.”
So I did. It came pouring out of me. I even blurted out that I’d consider lowering his rent if he helped me.
He smiled at that and asked, “How much were you going to lower it?”
It was my turn to smile. “So. What do you think? Will you take my case?”
“Of course, he will! Right, Daddy?”
Startled, we both turned to the window behind us. Ten-year-old Chris, her face pressed up against the screen, grinned. Michael looked back at me. “No, seriously, how much were you going to lower my rent?”
“That’s so not funny, Dad,” Chris said with a groan. “You’re supposed to be a private investigator, so investigate already.”
Michael shook his head. “Grown-up talk, Chris. Beat it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she mumbled and her head quickly disappeared.
“So, Michael, what do we do first?”
He stared at me for a full minute before answering. “Maggie, I’ll be willing to offer tips, advice, answer questions, but I haven’t even obtained my Florida PI license yet. Right now I’m still getting adjusted to being a single dad and that’s my top priority.”
I knew all about needing to get adjusted. I’d make it a point to only come to Michael when I really needed his guidance. “Sounds fair to me,” I said. “So, what do I do first?”
Michael cleared his throat. “First of all, you should let the police handle the situation. That’d be my most important advice.”
“Yeah, okay. I have no faith in our so-called police chief, so what’s your next idea?”
“I had a hunch you’d say that.” He smiled, then became serious and said, “Okay, don’t ever forget that there’s a real killer out there. This isn’t a game.”
The only danger I felt was allowing myself to be set up for Jack’s murder. Sitting around not doing anything to prevent that from happening was out of the question. “I promise to be careful and will always remember that. But you know about my husband’s murder, how and where it happened. I wouldn’t have rented to anyone without revealing that much. I definitely am taking this seriously, but I don’t trust the police to do their job, and I don’t ever want to wind up anywhere near Bobby Lee’s holding cell again.”
Michael gave me another good long look, then stood. He said, “Okay. I’ll be back out in a minute.”
I breathed out a huge sigh, feeling a lot less tense. Some of the numbness had worn off and I felt like I was on track. I was rubbing my neck when Michael came out. Instead of sitting, he frowned as he looked over my head. I turned to see what he was staring at.
Crap. Bobby Lee, in his police cruiser, sat at the stop sign on the other side of the street. I wondered how long he’d been there. With the small amount of traffic in this neighborhood, he could’ve been idling several minutes without another car coming up behind him. Even then, he’d probably just make them move around him. I turned my head and saw Michael had sat down. He held a legal pad and a pen in his lap.
“Is he still there?” I asked.
Michael shook his head. “No, he turned down the road.” He handed me the pen and paper and said, “Here’s the first thing to do: Make a list of all the people who could have been the last to see Jack Hoffman. Then you’ll go talk to each of them, get their story, find out what each of them knows.”
I wrote down all the names of the people who are usually at the club at closing time and showed him the list when I’d finished.
“Okay. Most of these are your bosses, right? And what about the new bartender—which one is she?”
“That’s Abby, but I don’t know where she is. She left town this morning.”
Michael arched an eyebrow. “She left town? Why?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Pete said she was leaving, or had left this morning to go back to Ft. Walton Beach. Is it important?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to slap myself upside the head. What a stupid question. Of course her leaving was important.
“It�
��s important that you talk with everyone. Don’t interrogate, just casual talk. And listen. Give people enough time, they’ll keep talking. Who knows what you’ll learn. Everything has to be taken into consideration. Then we sift through all the bullshit.”
“And I bet there’ll be lots of that.”
“Oh, you can count on it. There always is. It’s amazing what people will lie about. How well do you know these guys?” He tapped the pad with his finger.
I opened my mouth to answer, then stopped. How well did I really know them? I’d known them all for five years. Of my bosses, Sam and Kevin were the only ones I liked, and both of them had bailed on me this morning. “Until this happened, I would’ve thought I knew all of them pretty well. Now … who knows?”
“You want to find out as much as you can.” He looked at the list again and said, “The first name you have is Sam. Start with him.”
I made a face. “Sam wouldn’t hurt a fly. I can’t see him killing Jack.”
“Suspect everyone at this point. Talk to everyone so you can rule them out. For all we know it could’ve been a random killing. Was Jack robbed?”
I bit my lower lip. “No, I don’t think so. At least Bobby Lee didn’t say so.”
“You’ll want to find out immediately. Chances are he wasn’t, because the way the chief brought you in tells me he didn’t have much to go on. He was grasping at straws when they gave him that scrunchie. Someone had a reason to kill Jack, to eliminate him. Why?”
Damn. Another good question. I had been wondering who and why me, but not why Jack had actually been murdered.
“Maggie, what kind of guy was Jack?”
“A real ornery, opinionated man who didn’t give a shit what people thought about him. He spoke his mind, not caring whether or not we wanted to hear it. Jack was constantly writing stuff down in his little notebook.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Oh, who won the daily book and how much it was worth. If I gave a free drink to someone, how much gambling was going on and who was winning, if I or someone else broke a glass or spilled a beer, or just about anything.”
“Why did he do that—take notes?”
I shrugged. “Beats me. I always thought it was because he was a mean, hateful person. He blabbed to the officers during their monthly meetings. A little tattletale.”
“Sounds pretty harmless to me,” Michael said. “Is that enough for someone to kill him? Has anyone actually read the stuff he writes down?”
“I wouldn’t think so. Jack always keeps his notebook close to him. He’s been like that for as long as I’ve known him.” I chuckled. “I remember one time, shortly after I started working there, his notes actually panned out into something. Turned out Jack had been right about his suspicions that the drawing was rigged. Of course, nothing official was really ever done to the people involved since they’re board members, but we did have to change the way we do the daily book. Jack was a little less ornery for a while after that.”
“I don’t understand. How does the daily book work?”
I explained the procedure.
“How much money are we talking about?”
“It ranges from thirty bucks all the way to thousands. All depends on how long it takes for it to build up between winners. When it’s real high, the woodies come out.”
Michael frowned. “The woodies?”
“Members who never come in unless the book’s high. They come in out of the woodwork.”
“Okay, I got it. And what did Jack notice—how was it possible to rig the book?”
“The same guy, a social member, always volunteered to pull the number. He’d look at it, call out the number, and toss the chip back in the bucket without showing it to anyone. Dick or Diane Reid conveniently won a couple times just before going on a trip with Pam and JC Nelson. Their son Scott is married to one of the Reid girls and they spend a lot of time together. Pretty sneaky, huh?”
Michael laughed. “I’ll say. But why didn’t the guy just call his own number?
“I always wondered that too. Too obvious? Maybe they paid for his beer or slipped him some cash.”
“And it was because of Jack Hoffman’s notes that they were caught?”
“Yeah. He’d been keeping track of the winners and brought the evidence to the board meeting one night. Nothing happened to the Reids—hell, Dick’s been an officer for years. So has JC. It takes something really big for one of them to get in trouble. In the end, they decided it was simply a coincidence. Diane always acted guilty about it though.
“But now the bartender has to make sure there’s an officer present to pull the number, shows it to everyone, and there have to be at least six people at the bar.” I rolled my eyes at Michael. “I don’t know why six—just some number they pulled out of the air.”
“So, if the Reids didn’t get in trouble back then, and Jack’s notes seem pretty harmless, why would someone kill him now?”
Excellent question and I wished I had the answer. I shrugged. “Damned if I know. I wasn’t there that night. Hey! Could that be it? They waited for me to be out of the way, making sure I’d have no alibi?”
“But why you?”
Another excellent question. I couldn’t wait until I was the one asking questions from other people. I shrugged again. “I don’t know. Some of the officers don’t like me because I’m mouthy.” I told Michael about being written up last Thanksgiving. One more write-up and I’d be out of a job. “I guess I get along with everyone else. But my scrunchie being in Jack’s truck makes it seem like someone’s out to get me, to set me up.”
“You might want to keep that as a possibility for now.” He glanced at his watch and said, “I need to help Chris with her homework. Need anything else?”
“Um, my car is still at the club …”
“No problem at all. I’ll give you a ride.”
“Michael, thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.” I felt hot tears starting, so I shut up. I had to hold onto the little amount of control I’d regained. “Anyway, thanks. Want to leave about six? I’ll treat you and Chris to dinner.” As long as it’s someplace cheap.
“Sure, that’d be great. We’ll meet you out by my car.”
I handed Michael his pen and started to tear off the pages I’d written on.
“No,” he said, “keep the pad and use it to make notes, keep track of anything you learn.”
I thanked him again and walked around to my front door. Crap. My stomach flip-flopped, my pulse sped up, a flash of fear stopped me. Bobby Lee’s cruiser was parked across from my house again.
Five
Being scared ticked me off. I needed to get rid of some of this negative energy, do something productive. Even as that thought crossed my mind, a gust of wind pulled up a corner of the tarp. I hadn’t gotten around to fixing it yesterday. Until the magical day came when I could afford a new roof, or even some patching, I’d become used to climbing up and moving the tarp and bricks around.
If only there were a way to get used to owning this big dump. After Rob’s murder, I couldn’t stand living downstairs, so I’d moved into the upstairs. I chose one of the bedrooms and made do with the shabby appliances and furniture that had come with the house. We had never gotten around to tearing down the dividing wall around the stairway, so it was still a two-family house when I listed it with a realtor. But selling the house with only the bottom floor and the upstairs bathroom being completely renovated was next to impossible. The realtor had done his best, but with no nibbles at all, I didn’t bother renewing the contract with him. No one in their right mind would buy the place.
The hospital administrator in charge of the sale must have seen Rob coming. It had been used as a dorm for nursing students before the local college eliminated the nursing program. The house was vacant for two years, and with upkeep and taxes, the costs ha
d become too much. The hospital administration wanted out. Rob had told me how happy the guy had been when he handed over the keys. I bet he was happy he’d finally gotten rid of the dump. Let it become someone else’s headache.
And turning it back into a single-family home was a huge headache. In three short years we used all of our savings to renovate the downstairs and master bath. We’d looked forward to celebrating our twentieth wedding anniversary in our finished home. Missed that by eight months.
Whatever. I had to get past this. Somehow I had to get focused. First things first. Having Michael to go to for advice was a start, a good start. Tonight we’d get my car, then I’d go from there.
I climbed down off the tarp-protected roof and headed upstairs to the bathroom to clean up. I skipped the shower to avoid taking time to dry my long hair. I brushed it and started to tie it back with another scrunchie. Bobby Lee’s voice creeped into my head.
On the floor of Jack Hoffman’s truck.
Hell, I had scrunchies lying around behind the bar. Anybody could’ve taken one and used it to frame me. But who?
Plenty of people came behind the bar. Sam did the ordering, JC got money out of the safe, Diane cleaned the club every Monday morning. JC and Dick were always in there early when no one else was around. Pam covered the bar for me just about every night so I could take breaks. Pete sometimes helped stock the beer cooler or lugged heavy garbage bags out to the back porch for me. I didn’t remember Kevin ever being back there, but he had keys just like the others, so he could get in any time he wanted. With the exception of Pete, they all had keys and security codes.
