Last Call

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Last Call Page 16

by Paula Matter


  My computer dinged and another e-mail from Brenda popped up. This one had a link, and nothing else. No explanation or anything. Brenda must think it’s important, relevant to the case though, so I clicked on it. A website for an organization run by a group of veterans. What the hell? Why hadn’t she included any text? Maybe she was in a hurry, wanted to send it when she had a quick chance?

  I scrolled down through the site reading bits and pieces. All of the articles were about men who’d been caught lying about being in the military. Buying fake medals and ribbons over the Internet. Dozens of men (funny how no women were mentioned) whose lies were revealed because of inconsistencies. Actual veterans, members of VFWs and American Legions, telling stories of listening to alleged war heroes. How you can tell a true vet by how little he speaks of his time in the military, not the boasting. Ask the right questions of these lying bastards and the truth will come out. Only a true vet knows.

  I leaned back in my chair, stared at the computer screen. What was Brenda saying? All she’d done was send the link. No suspicions, no names. Narrowing it down to who all she’d met, I came up with Sam, Pete, Kevin, and Diane. Oh, and probably Phil. Was she saying one of them was lying about being in the military? According to the site, the maximum penalty for wearing medals never earned, a misdemeanor, is six months in jail and a fine. Not to mention the humiliation and embarrassment. Someone would not want that lie to be revealed.

  Is this what Jack Hoffman knew and had he written about it in his notebook? And why the hell did Jack write stuff down in his damn notebooks?

  Notebooks. Plural. Yeah. He had to have more than one. The five years I’d known Jack he’d been writing in them. No way in hell could it be the same one over and over. So where were they? The only place Brenda and I hadn’t checked in Jack’s house was his bedroom closet. Bobby Lee had shown up and interrupted us. There could be a whole stack or boxful of notebooks in that closet. Unless he threw them away, but I didn’t think that was possible. Sam had told me the notebook Jack had brought to use against the Reids was months old. Only one way to find out if there were any notebooks lying around.

  Damn. Did I have to break into Jack’s house again? I’d gotten away with it once already. If Bobby Lee or anyone caught me, I could just say I was there to feed the cat. Oh, the cat. Sheesh. I really should do that. How many days could an animal survive without food or water? Definitely have to check on the cat. I’d tell Michael in the morning that I wanted to stop by Jack’s to feed the cat, then I’d slip into the bedroom real quick and look in Jack’s closet.

  I’d decide later whether or not to tell Michael my plan to snoop. I felt a little twinge of guilt, but knowing Michael, I’m sure he wouldn’t be crazy about contributing to me snooping. He seemed to’ve found it humorous that Brenda and I had done it, but I didn’t think he’d want to be an accomplice.

  The clock chimed twice. Eleven o’clock already. Time to turn in. I closed the website, turned off and unplugged the computer, and climbed into bed. I set the alarm clock for too early. Exactly one week ago this time, I was working with an hour to go on my shift. Dead on my feet and wishing the clowns in charge would hire someone else.

  So, instead of having a job to go to tomorrow, I would be talking to the hospital administrator about house keys, Sam about the daily books, snooping in Jack’s closet, and riding across the state to visit Abby in a strip club.

  Gussie said she saw two people and two cars. Were they the same two people each time, but in two different cars? Four different people? Was this another Murder on the Orient Express? Except in that case, it was one murder weapon and several killers. Murder weapon. Add poison to the mix. Why was Jack stabbed and poisoned? And where was the knife?

  Twenty-Three

  The next morning I checked the online newspaper’s job ads. Oh, well, maybe I’d have better luck with the larger Sunday edition. I showered and dressed, and because it was such a beautiful morning, I decided to walk to the hospital.

  The automatic doors swooshed open and I walked over to the switchboard operator to ask for directions to the administrator’s office. The woman at the desk made a phone call and told me where to go. Maybe that would be a good job for me. I’d get paid for telling people where to go. Cool.

  I stepped into the elevator, pushed the button, and got off on the third floor. As soon as the door opened, the wonderful smells of bacon and coffee hit me. My stomach grumbled then stopped when the strong odor of Ben-Gay overpowered the pleasant aroma of breakfast.

  Nurses and aides bustled, pushing elderly patients in wheelchairs and assisting those with walkers to a large room that obviously was the dining room. I’d ended up on the nursing home floor. One nurse stood behind a semicircle desk near the elevator watching the activity around her. The woman was huge, like an Amazon queen or a bouncer, and I went over to her. She towered over me.

  “Excuse me, I’m looking for Mr. Jacobs’s office.”

  “Oh, sure, he’s—just a second, please,” she said, left the desk, and walked over to the elevator. “Miss Pearl, time for breakfast. Please go on into the dining room with the others. Come on, dear, don’t argue with me. It’s time to eat.”

  I turned around to see who could possibly argue with this woman. Oh! That little old lady who gave Chris those flowers. What was her name? I didn’t remember it being Pearl.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Amazon Queen said when she came back to the desk. “Mornings are pretty busy around here. Mr. Jacobs’s office is down this hall, the last door on the right. I know he’s in.”

  “Thanks so much,” I said. “That lady you were just talking to. What’s her name?”

  “You mean Miss Pearl? She’s a handful, that one. Sweet as pie when she’s lucid, but oh boy, when she’s confused …”

  “Does she take walks around the neighborhood? I could’ve sworn I met her, but the name Pearl doesn’t seem right. Maybe it’s not her.”

  “That’s what I mean about being a handful. She’ll slip out without any of us seeing her. I’ve been after administration to get some kind of lock or passkey system on the elevator, but … ” she said, shrugging her shoulders in a what can you do? way.

  The name suddenly came to me. “Dottie! That’s what she said her name was.”

  Amazon Queen paled, lowered her eyes, and then looked at me again. “Um, who did you say you were?”

  That came out of left field. I frowned and answered, “I didn’t. I live in the neighborhood and have a question for the administrator about my house. My husband bought it from the hospital.”

  “Oh. Like I said, his office is right down the hall. Have a nice day.” She abruptly left me and walked into the dining room.

  Alrighty then. That was strange. I walked down the hall and found Mr. Jacobs’s office. The door was open and I introduced myself to the man behind the desk. He strode toward me with his hand outstretched and a big smile. Bobby Lee had been right. This man was certainly dressed for a day of golf.

  “Mrs. Lewis, how nice to meet you! I’m Fred. What can I do for you?” He gestured for me to have a seat in one of the comfy chairs in front of his desk.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m a little pressed for time, but I need to know if I have the only set of keys to my house.”

  He sat down behind his desk. “I’m sorry for your loss. A terrible tragedy. Your husband was a fine man.”

  “Thank you. Now, about the keys?” I explained about the fire and why I was asking.

  “A fire? I’m so sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I thought your husband had planned on replacing the front doors. I recall him telling me as much, or at the very least replacing the old doorknobs. You never did that?”

  Damn. No, we hadn’t. It seemed like a waste of money at the time when we had so many other expenses. We eventually were going to get new doors, hardware, kick plate, even a new mailbox. “I’m afraid not,” I said.


  “Well, there you go. To the best of my knowledge, you have the only keys. We turned over the ones we had.” He glanced at his watch and stood. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Lewis? I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m needed in the dining room to say grace for our morning meal.”

  “No, and thank you,” I said and rose from my chair. We shook hands and walked down the hall together.

  The same little old lady who Amazon Queen had called Miss Pearl stood at the elevator waiting for the doors to open, a rolling shopping cart next to her. And with what looked like my Daffy Duck umbrella sticking out of it.

  “Dottie!” I said.

  “Oh, shit,” Mr. Jacobs muttered. He blushed when he realized I’d heard him. “Oh, sorry, Mrs. Lewis. Um, would you mind waiting here a minute? I’ll be right back.” He approached the elderly woman and spoke softly to her. She nodded and grabbed hold of her little cart. He took her gently by the elbow and they went into the dining room.

  Amazon Queen looked away when I saw her staring at me. What the hell was going on here? Something told me I’d be wasting my time and breath by asking her, so I waited for Mr. Jacobs, who emerged a few minutes later.

  The smile on his face wasn’t as big as when we’d met in his office. He ran his fingers through his hair and punched the elevator button. “We’ll talk on the way down.”

  The doors opened and we stepped in. As soon as the doors closed and he pushed the first floor button, I turned to him and said, “Okay, what’s the deal?”

  He looked like he wanted to cry. Or run away. Be anywhere else but in that elevator with me. Whatever he had to tell me was big and unnerving the hell out of him.

  “Okay, here’s the situation. Pearl lived in your home when it was the nursing dorm.” He glanced at me. “You do know the history?”

  “Yes.”

  A huge sigh escaped his lips and he continued. “Pearl was the house mother and cook for years. The woman loves to cook. Still does. We let her lead a cooking class as one of the weekly activities here.”

  The man was starting to ramble. Time to rein him in.

  “And …?”

  “And she refuses to hand over her keys.”

  “That’s exactly what I just asked you, and you said no! She has keys to my house?! My house?”

  “I’m afraid so. But, really, she’s harmless. I’m sure she never gets in.”

  His expression told me he was sure of no such thing. And he knew that I knew. I kept quiet, remembering what Michael had said about letting the guilty speak. Eventually they gave themselves up by offering too much information in the uncomfortable silence.

  “Okay, okay,” he said.

  Damn. It worked.

  “Pearl is a very sweet lady who was suffering from the early stages of Alzheimer’s at the time we sold the house to your husband. In order to not agitate her, we let her keep her keys. She put up quite a fuss every time we asked her for them.”

  “Why didn’t you tell my husband all this?”

  He rubbed his hand over his mouth again. “Your husband said you wanted to replace the doors, that it was going to be one of the first things done.” The forlorn tone of his voice and the puppy dog expression got to me. I actually felt sorry for the man. He was right. Rob and I had planned on getting new doors. We had always meant to.

  “Okay, Mr. Jacobs, I think I understand.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Lewis, thank you.” He placed his hand on my arm. “Thank you so much.”

  “We—my husband and I—met Dottie once while we were taking a walk around the neighborhood. She was weeding her garden … Oh. I guess it wasn’t her garden?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid not. That house you’re talking about is very close by. We usually catch Miss Pearl before she gets as far as your house.”

  The elevator doors opened. He followed me out into the hall. The big smile was back on his face. He reached into his back pocket and pulled put his wallet.

  “Please allow me to pay for the damage to your kitchen. It’s, um, quite possible that it was Pearl. She, uh, was unaccountable for awhile yesterday afternoon.” He handed me a hundred-dollar bill. “Is that acceptable?”

  “That’ll be fine, Mr. Jacobs.” I shook the hand he held out to me. I smiled and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye out for Miss Pearl from now on. I should probably get your number so I can call you next time she’s ‘unaccountable.’”

  He pulled a business card out of his wallet. “Yes, please do. And I’m so sorry again, Mrs. Lewis. Thank you for understanding. Bless you and have a good day.”

  I turned to leave, then thought of something. “Mr. Jacobs? When I met Miss Pearl she introduced herself as Dottie. Can you explain?”

  This man would make a lousy poker player. His face practically crumbled. “It’s somewhat embarrassing, Mrs. Lewis, and quite, um, unprofessional.”

  Now I was really curious. I tried the good old trick of keeping quiet again.

  “I’m afraid Pearl heard one of the nurses call her that, and in her confused moments she thinks that’s her nickname.”

  My lack of understanding rattled him.

  He looked around and mumbled, “You know—dotty. As in dotty in the head?”

  “Ah, I get it, Mr. Jacobs. And, yep, very unprofessional.” I couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across my face. “But in a fun sort of way. Maybe?”

  I thought the man would wet himself he looked so relieved.

  Michael and Chris were out on the patio when I got back to the house ten minutes later. Chris had packed an overnight bag and Michael tossed it in the backseat next to her, and we were off to Terri’s house. I couldn’t wait to tell Michael what I’d learned from Mr. Jacobs, but I didn’t want to say anything in front of Chris. Instead we listened to her excited chatter about their plans, and going to church the next day with Heather and her mom. Michael seemed to sense something because he kept glancing over at me. It felt like it took forever to get to Terri’s.

  I waited in the car when we finally got there. Terri and Heather stepped out onto the porch after Michael rang the doorbell. I carefully watched for any signs between Michael and Terri. Once she did put her hand on his arm and I noticed he didn’t pull away. I also noticed she kept it there for a little too long. Talk about aggressive. Sheesh. Some women.

  I went over in my mind the conversation I’d had with Mr. Jacobs. I wanted to make sure I didn’t forget to tell Michael any of it. What the hell was taking Michael so long? We had work to do and I wanted to get going. He and Terri were still on the porch, but the girls must’ve gone inside. At least she didn’t have her paws all over him anymore, but this was ridiculous. Let them flirt on their own damn time.

  I tapped the horn. Not being used to Michael’s car, what should’ve been a friendly toot to nudge them along became a loud blast. Both of them turned and looked over at me, neither very happy. I wanted to crawl away and die.

  Surprisingly, Michael didn’t slam the car door when he got in. At least not as hard as Terri closed her front door. Too bad, but I wanted to get this show on the road. Still, that was a pretty loud horn and I’d manage to embarrass all three of us.

  “Michael, I’m sorry. The horn … I didn’t think … well, I’m sorry.”

  A curt nod. He continued staring straight ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel. The news that our break-ins were fairly benign could wait for another time, I decided, keeping my silence.

  I never thought I’d feel as happy about seeing the club as I did then. Since Michael and I hadn’t arranged a meeting with Sam ahead of time, I wondered what kind of reception we’d receive. Sam wouldn’t be expecting us, and I hoped he’d still let us in to look at the book.

  Fortunately, Sam was in a cooperatively great mood, and let us in with no problem. I explained why we were there and he led us back to his office. Gett
ing better at identifying country singers, I recognized Gretchen Wilson singing about how great it was to be a redneck woman. I couldn’t disagree with good ole Gretchen. Coming up from Miami to this small north Florida town was like moving to the real south. We lived so close to the border it was like living in south Georgia. I’d learn to “yeehaw” like the best of ’em. My mother would die if she knew that.

  Michael and I sat side by side at one of the tables outside Sam’s office while he went and got the book pages for last Friday and Saturday—the last night I worked and the night Jack was murdered.

  “I made copies of these for Bobby Lee, but I don’t see any problem with showing them to you,” Sam said. He handed me the pages and sat down across from us.

  I’d worked at the club for so long the names were easily and quickly identified.

  “What the hell are they doing here?”

  I spun around. JC Nelson. And he definitely wasn’t in a great mood or cooperative. Sam scrambled out of his chair and turned to face him. Just past JC, I saw Pam come out of her office. She leaned against the doorjamb, a smirk on her face.

  “Sam? What the hell’s going on?” JC pointed a finger at me. “Get her out of here. She has no business being in the club before we open.”

  Poor Sam sputtered, “Aw, c’mon, JC, she’s—”

  “No, I don’t want to hear it, Sam.” JC glared at me and Michael. “Neither one of you have any business in here. Especially coming in this time of day unannounced.” He shoved by Sam and stormed into their shared office, slamming the door behind him. Shania Twain got cut off in mid-sentence when he apparently turned off the radio. Pam did an about-face back into her office, closing the door softly behind her.

  I didn’t know who I felt sorrier for. JC for being such an asshole, or Sam for bearing the brunt of his assholedness. I guess I leaned more toward Sam, then I became worried when I looked up at him. He hadn’t moved an inch, but his body shook, and his face was an ugly shade of purple. I rushed to him.

 

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