Last Call

by Paula Matter

  “Good morning, Sam.” I rapped on his open door. I apologized after he nearly jumped out of his desk chair. “Didn’t mean to startle you. May I come in?”

  “I didn’t hear you.” He waved me in and I sat in the other chair. Before I could get too comfortable, he said, “I don’t have a lot of time this morning, Maggie. I’ll be done with this in a few minutes.”

  “Okay.” I was sure it would take him much longer than a few minutes considering the state of his office. Stacks of manila files, loose papers, and books leaned precariously on two corners of his desk. Brand-new cellophane bags full of gambling tickets were stuffed along one wall waiting to be catalogued, then stored. The other wall housed the copy machine, typewriter, and a small file cabinet. Above the cabinet, a bulletin board was plastered with dozens of colored Post-it notes. He didn’t have the greatest memory in the world and constantly wrote himself reminders. Sam, a big guy, must’ve felt claustrophobic in this room. Funny but I’d never compared him to an animal like I do with most people. He was more like the Pillsbury Dough Boy right down to the blue eyes. I grinned as a mental picture of poking him flashed in my head.

  His chair squeaked as he turned to face me. “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “Um, nothing. Hey, thanks for working for me last night. I’m all set to come in tonight.”

  Sam frowned and averted his eyes. Uh-oh. This couldn’t be good.

  “Here’s the thing, Maggie. They want you to take tonight off too.” He held up both of his huge hands, and before I could respond, continued, “They think that’s best for right now.”

  I didn’t have to ask who “they” were. JC and Dick. But I did have to ask, “What about tomorrow night, and the night after that?”

  “Uh,” he said, “they’re talking about having a meeting. I don’t know when, but they don’t want you working until then.”

  I bit my bottom lip hard, which overpowered the pain my fingernails were causing my clenched palms. “What’s the meeting for? To decide whether or not I have a job?”

  “Pretty much. I’m sorry.”

  Yeah, you sure are sorry, you miserable son—I stopped that line of thinking real quick. I didn’t need Sam to alienate me. He and I had always been able to talk. Sam used me to vent, to rant and rave when they did something he was against. He knew I’d keep my mouth shut.

  “Hey, wait. Tonight’s your usual monthly board meeting. Why don’t y’all just make a decision tonight? Get it the hell over with?”

  Sam didn’t say a word.

  “So,” I said, “they’re lining up voting members, checking when they’re available to meet, and then I get fired. They couldn’t get enough voting members to be here tonight. They have to set up a special meeting. Is that pretty much it?”

  “You know how they are.”

  Unfortunately, I did. I unclenched my fists so I couldn’t slug him for not standing up to them. For not sticking up for me. Speaking of which, that reminded me about Sam finding the scrunchie and turning it over to JC. I asked him about it.

  “As soon as I opened Jack’s driver’s side door, it fell out. I bent down to pick it up and JC saw me. He made me give it to him for safekeeping.”

  “You mean to turn it over to Bobby Lee in order to frame my ass, don’t you?”

  “Now, Maggie. Why would JC want that?”

  Truthfully? I had no clue. But I could only go on people’s actions and past behaviors. JC had a strong sense of loyalty with an even stronger belief in following orders. Probably why I’d never make it in the military—I’d be questioning my leaders all the time. You want me to storm what hill? I remembered one night a few years ago JC had come out of his office after getting a phone call. He’d been playing cards with Sam, Kevin, and Dick, and after the phone call, JC had pointed to them and said, “Follow me.” Without a word, all three followed him out the door, no questions asked. Later, when they returned, we learned JC’s son Scott had hit a deer with his truck and needed help getting the truck out of a ditch. Scott survived, not so the poor deer.

  “Okay, Sam.” I stood. “Just call me when you guys figure just what the hell you’re doing.” I turned to leave, then thought of another question. I turned back. “Was there anything gone from Jack’s truck? Was his wallet missing? Did it look like he’d been robbed, or that he’d put up a fight?”

  “Nope. But I didn’t really look for anything. Once I saw all that blood, I knew he wasn’t sleeping it off this time.”

  Seven

  Sam’s last words stayed in my head as I sat in my car wondering what I should do next. All that blood. That’s what Bobby Lee had said to me in the parking lot yesterday morning. The reality of Jack’s death slammed into me. Only two days ago, he was a living, breathing man. An ornery, grouchy one, but still. Now I wished I’d taken more time to get to know him. I was curious to find out all I could about Jack. What better way than to see where and how he lived?

  One night I’d followed Jack home after he told me he wasn’t feeling well. He wasn’t drunk—I never let my customers get to that state—but his asthma was bothering him and his inhaler had run out while he was at the club. I made sure he got home in one piece that night. I knew his house was close to the club, and I was almost positive I could find it again.

  A heavy duty metal gray mailbox with hoffman painted in big white letters stood at the dirt road leading to his house. This detective business might be easier than I thought. I remembered following Jack down the dirt road that night. Bumpy and, since it had been almost one in the morning, very dark. Grateful for the daylight now, I still felt a bit nervous. Slowing down to make the turn, I was surprised to see a car coming out the end of Jack’s road.

  Crap. A police cruiser. I sped up. That was too damn close. I kept an eye on my rearview mirror and sure enough, the cruiser pulled out in my direction. He was soon right behind me. I recognized the Jacksonville Jaguars cap Bobby Lee wore. I did my best to obey the speed limit—not easy since it was 35 mph and my right foot is made of lead.

  A loud whoop! from his siren, and he passed me. I was tempted to turn around at the first chance I had and go back to Jack’s when a better idea came to me. I followed Bobby Lee all the way downtown back to the police station.

  Suddenly feeling brave, I decided to ask the police chief questions that only he had the answers to. First thing I wanted to find out was why he’d sat in front of my house the day before.

  He pulled into his reserved spot out front while I parked between two pickup trucks. I remembered how Rob had wanted to get a pickup just so he’d fit in more in this town. They were all over the place it seemed. I never did find out if Rob had been joking.

  Bobby Lee was standing at the front counter when I entered the station. He looked up from the pile of mail he was sorting and nodded. “Morning, Maggie. What can I do for you?”

  May as well be blunt. “Chief, what were you doing at my house last night?” I kept my hands down at my side pressed against my legs so he couldn’t see them shaking. I hoped my voice hadn’t betrayed me.

  “You know I’m conducting a murder investigation. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  Whose murder? At one time my house was considered a crime scene. I decided to keep this about Jack Hoffman, so asked, “What about Jack’s truck? Was there anything else in it besides my planted scrunchie? Was he robbed? What kind of weapon killed him? Could it have been a carjacking gone bad?”

  Bobby Lee stepped back as if my words had actually touched him. “I ain’t at liberty to reveal anything. You know that.”

  I stood my ground, feeling more confident by the second. I was determined to get answers. Maybe if I changed tactics. I softened my voice and said, “Oh, Bobby Lee, it’s just that I’m scared I’m going to lose my job. Sam told me they’re probably going to fire me over this.”

  Before I could bat my eyelashes, he smiled and said, “Now, Ma
ggie, I’m sure you don’t have anything to worry about.” He leaned on the counter and said, “I will tell you this: Nothing else was found in his truck, possibly a knife with a short blade was used, and I’m positive it wasn’t robbery or attempted carjacking. I’m only telling you that much so you’ll stay out of it. You and Michael Bradley. I don’t care how good a police officer he was in Orlando, he doesn’t have any right to mess with my investigation.”

  Ah. Sounded like Bobby Lee had heard about Michael asking questions, and checked up on him. Interesting.

  “As far as I’m concerned, the two of you are civilians. You might want to remind him of that.” The telephone rang and he reached for it. “And I want you to remember that too. Now, I’d best get back to work.”

  Clearly dismissed, I left the station and stood on the sidewalk going over my options. Midmorning on a Monday in the downtown square of North DeSoto, there was little car or foot traffic. Any shopping to be done would be happening at the mall out off the main highway. Downtown was slowly dying. On this side of the street stood the courthouse, police station, and post office.

  Straight ahead of me was the park. In order to bring life back to the downtown area, several local organizations had united in renovating the town square. Over the years it had become a mess of overgrown shrubs and weeds smack dab in the middle of downtown businesses. The North DeSoto Garden Club was now responsible for upkeep of the beautiful landscape. A small colorful carousel was silent at the moment, and I could see the fountain was flowing. Rather than stroll through the park now, I looked around to get my bearings. Across from the park were a jewelry store, law offices, a realtor, and movie theater. If I turned right, I’d go by the library, an overpriced dress shop, and Sally’s, my favorite restaurant in this town. A twenty-four-hour diner and bakery, Sally’s was always busy whenever I’d gone in. Rob and I had enjoyed many meals there during those long days and nights of working on the house. My stomach grumbled at the thought of Sally’s homemade sausage gravy and biscuits, but it looked like I’d have to really start counting my pennies.

  To the left were a closed-up bookstore, a pawn shop, a bank, and JC’s hardware store. Oh, joy. I took a deep breath and turned left. Time to see what, if anything, I could learn from JC. My mantra: Be nice, Maggie.

  A little bell jingled announcing my arrival when I opened the door to Nelson’s Hardware. I had never had any reason to shop at JC’s store. Any hardware-type stuff I needed I bought over at the newer big chain store in the shopping center. Nelson’s Hardware had been around for over a century, staying in the same family, the same location all this time. I had to move my way around a stack of cardboard boxes to get to the counter.

  “Be right with you,” a voice called out from somewhere in the back. “Help yourself to coffee and donuts.”

  I looked around, and sure enough, a little round table near the front counter had a coffeemaker and a couple of Dunkin’ Donuts boxes. A handwritten sign told me to help myself.

  So I did. I figured this would be the only time I’d get anything good from JC Nelson. I remembered my new mantra. I munched on my glazed donut and wandered around the store while waiting for JC. Strong smells of fertilizer, bleach, and paint filled the air. Not a great mix with my donut, but beggars can’t be choosers and all that. I grabbed another donut—toasted coconut this time—and took a bite.

  “Maggie! How are you? I’m glad you stopped in. I’ve been thinking about you, hoping you were doing okay.”

  I almost choked on my donut, startled not only by his sudden appearance, but his friendly words.

  “What can I do for you?” JC moved around behind the counter. “I don’t imagine you’re here to buy anything.”

  “Actually, I am. I came in to see if you had a tarp. My poor roof is in pretty bad shape, and the tarp I have now is torn and ragged.” I smiled ever so sweetly and popped the last bit of donut in my mouth. “I was hoping your prices were lower than that big superstore. I can’t afford their high prices. I’m not even sure I can afford yours, bu … ” Hint, hint, you sorry bastard for wanting to get me fired and framed for murder.

  “I’m sure I can help you out. Follow me.” JC headed toward the newer part of his store. About three, four years ago they had bought the vacant store next door and added on. More strong smells, this time kerosene, sawdust, and the sound of banging.

  “Okay, here you go. Different sizes and material. Of course, the thicker, stronger pieces will run you a bit more, but they’re worth it in the long run. Any questions?” The banging stopped and I didn’t have to shout for him to hear me.

  “Yeah. Why are you trying to frame me for Jack Hoffman’s murder?” Damn. I forgot my mantra. Hell, as long as I was at it …“And did you really think that giving Bobby Lee that scrunchie was enough to put me away? There was nothing but that in Jack’s truck. Bobby Lee told—”

  A clatter nearby interrupted me. What the hell?

  “Pam? Honey, are you okay?” JC moved quickly down the aisle and I followed him. We rounded the corner and Pam, sitting on top of a high ladder, came into view. She stared down, then looked at us and pointed at the floor.

  “Hello, Maggie,” Pam said, sniffing. “Yes, JC, I’m fine. Dropped the hammer. Can you get it for me? I’d like to finish this. I have an appointment.”

  JC bent to retrieve the hammer and I looked at what Pam had been doing. Along one wall a row of framed newspaper articles hung. I’d seen them before and had received a Nelson family/hardware store history lesson at the same time. Pam was a member of the North DeSoto Historical Society and enjoyed combing through old records. She’d apparently been hanging the most recent one when she dropped her hammer.

  “Hi, Pam. A new article?”

  “Yes, I found it in the Jacksonville library archives yesterday. That library is so much better than our dinky one.” She sniffed again. “Our town library should become one of my projects. It could only improve if I got involved. I’d make sure everything was in its proper place, make things easier to find. Too many times I’ve found articles in the Jacksonville library that aren’t in our own. A disgrace.”

  JC reached up, handed his wife the hammer, and chuckled. “Pam was in the Jacksonville library all day yesterday. She’d spend all her waking hours in libraries researching if she didn’t have so many other responsibilities in the community.”

  Ah, yes, Pamela Nelson, social butterfly. She belonged to every civic organization in North DeSoto. Rob used to call her a Junior League Wannabe. He’d softened though when Pam came over with some articles about our own house. The two of them would pore over old documents and photos together. She was the one who told us about our house being a dorm for nursing students starting back in the 1950s. She’d still find papers and stuff and call me. I didn’t have as much interest as Rob had, and I cared even less now, but I also didn’t want to be rude.

  The jingle of the bell over the door announced a real customer. JC said, “If you’ll excuse me, Maggie. Let me know about the tarp.” He headed to the other side of the store toward his customer, which left me and Pam alone.

  Sitting so high above me, I’m sure she thought of me as one of her town peasants. I knew firsthand she didn’t need a six-foot ladder to look down on people. Before she could start hammering away, I asked, “Pam, did you overhear Jack say anything at the bar Saturday night? Or maybe Friday night? Anything that might be reason for someone to want him dead?”

  She sniffed. The air must be thinner way up there on her perch. I waited.

  “I assure you I don’t make eavesdropping a habit, Maggie.”

  I smiled and said, “Of course not. I was thinking more of how easy it is to hear stuff when you’re behind the bar. Remarks you don’t even realize at the time are important. Anything like that?”

  Pam gripped the hammer tighter and opened her mouth as if to respond, then clamped it shut. She shook her head and smiled. “No,”
she said, “nothing like that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to this. If I don’t do it, it’ll never get done properly.”

  I grabbed another donut before leaving the store. Unbeknownst to her, Pam had given me a great idea and I couldn’t wait to follow through.

  Eight

  The North DeSoto Public Library, a two-story Spanish-style building common in north Florida, was anything but dinky in my opinion. Then again, I’m not one to spend full days in libraries like Pam had the day before. The library’s computers should be much faster than the antiquated one I had at the house.

  After talking to the reference librarian, I was soon settled at a table ready to find out all I could about Jack Hoffman. Scrolling through old newspaper archives, I came up with two small articles. The first piece, a blurry photograph from 1953, was about Jack’s return from the war with his beautiful new Korean bride. The second article was one line listed under Divorces nine years later. So much for that. For the marriage and for my research.

  Next up, I Googled “Abby Kwon.” Two hits. One was a high school student in Arkansas who had aced her SATs and the other was a real estate agent in Delaware. The search brought up a whole bunch of pages about Nancy Kwan, the actress. I tried “Abigail Kwan” and “Abigail Kwon” and had no luck there either.

  I liked the possible connection of Jack Hoffman marrying a Korean woman, and Abby being Korean. Coincidence? I didn’t think so. Jack’s comment about the bitter-tasting beer that Abby had served him. Abby suddenly leaving town. For shits and giggles, knowing I was wasting my time, I Googled “Abby Hoffman.” Yeah, I know.

  Then I tried finding Abby through the online Ft. Walton Beach phone book. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for the detective business after all. I slumped in the chair, staring at the computer monitor and wondering what to do next when I overheard whispering behind me. I’d been so involved with my research, I hadn’t noticed before, but it sounded like the tail end of a gossipy conversation. I listened closer and heard snippets.