Last Call

by Paula Matter

  He glanced at his watch and said, “We’d better get going. I still have to pack a bag. How about you? Are you ready?” He slid off his stool. I reluctantly followed him. We waved at Sally on our way out and Michael said, “Thank you, ma’am, for the great food and the hospitality, and have a great day.”

  “They’re all great days, Yankee, Lord willing.”

  “What were you writing down?” Michael asked once we got in the car. I explained about the Daryl/Gayle idea.

  “Okay, but didn’t you say Abby’s in her late twenties, early thirties?” He pulled out into the steady stream of downtown traffic. “Even if Jack did have a daughter, Abby would be too young.”

  “I know, but so many other pieces seemed to fall in place. I wanted to make it fit. It’s stupid now, but after I saw that photo of Jack with a Korean woman and baby, I thought maybe the baby was Abby. Jack complained his beer tasted bitter, and the way she left so suddenly made me suspicious of her.” Grateful Michael wasn’t laughing at me, I went on. “I thought maybe she’d come back to town, looking for her father. Maybe she found him, and he rejected her, so she killed him. Or maybe she hated him all these years and tracked him down. It was the way Pam had said a woman could’ve killed Jack, that’s what made me start wondering all that about Abby. Too bad Jack had a son. I wouldn’t have wasted all that time thinking along those lines.”

  At that Michael smiled. “No time wasted. It’s good to brainstorm, to play ‘what if.’ The way you kept thinking ‘maybe this or maybe that’ is good. Same as what if. What if Jack’s kid, all grown up now, came back to kill him? What if Jack knew something about someone and that person killed him? What if Jack owed somebody money and that person murdered him because he wouldn’t pay or couldn’t? See? You were headed in the right direction.”

  “Maybe Abby was Jack’s granddaughter? That could work. Couldn’t it?” I groaned. “Sheesh, this is so hard. Are we ever going to get on the right track?”

  “We will, Maggie.” He cleared his throat. “Sure as shee-it, we will.”

  “What the hell?”

  “I’m practicing. Didn’t that sound better?”

  “Damn Yankee.” It felt good to laugh. Too bad it didn’t last long. We turned the corner to the house and saw one of North DeSoto’s finest cruisers, lights flashing, parked near my driveway.

  Bobby Lee waddled over to us as we rushed toward the driveway. “Now, little lady, just hold on there.” He put his arm out blocking me going any farther. I looked over his shoulder and couldn’t see anything wrong. No smoke, no fire, nothing. I glared at him. If he called me little lady one more time, I was going to slug him.

  “What’s happened, Bobby Lee? Is someone hurt? Is my house okay?”

  “No one’s hurt, and your house is fine. And, uh, I hope your car insurance is up to date, little lady.”

  Michael grabbed my arm as I was swinging it back to belt Bobby Lee.

  Twenty-Five

  “Not a good idea,” Michael said in my ear. He held a firm grip on my arm, making sure I didn’t assault the chief of police. Sure way to visit his holding cell.

  “I’m sorry, Bobby Lee. You know I never would’ve really hit you.”

  He looked at me as though he knew no such thing. I tried a smile, and he seemed to mellow a bit even as he kept both eyes on my hands.

  “Really, I’m sorry. You know the last couple of days have been pretty rough for me.”

  “Oh, that’s all right, little lady.”

  Michael grabbed my other arm and held on tight. Smart man.

  “Can you please tell me what’s going on?” Before I completely lose my mind, you stupid idiotic moron of a man, I wanted to add.

  “Seems there was some trouble at your place a little while ago. Neighbor called it in.” He turned, gestured with a nod for us to follow him to my house. “Some petty vandalism, not too much real damage.”

  “What happened? Who called it in?” My words rushed out in one breath.

  “More of a nuisance, I think.” Bobby Lee pointed to a man wearing a jogging suit standing nearby talking to another uniformed cop. Sheesh. Looked like the whole North DeSoto police force was out. “He’s the one who called it in.”

  I vaguely recognized the man. I looked at him carefully. Was he simply a jogger, or something more sinister? Had he been casing the joint?

  I told myself to get a grip. The man was an ordinary guy out running. I had seen him plenty of times before in the neighborhood.

  Almost afraid to ask, I turned to the police chief. “What about my car? You said something about my car.”

  He glanced at my arms, then at Michael. “It ain’t pretty, so be prepared.”

  Michael still held one of my arms, and with my legs feeling like lead, we walked around to the driveway.

  Windshield wipers twisted, bent at angles. Two slashed tires. A long scratch the length of the car. My poor little trusty, paid-for car.

  Good thing Michael was still holding onto me because my legs buckled. He led me to the patio table and into one of the chairs, Bobby Lee not too far behind. Michael sat next to me holding my hand, but for comfort now more than restraint. I started to speak and the lump in my throat stopped me. I tried again, and this time managed a weak little squeak, “Who? Why?”

  “Oh, I reckon it was just a couple of boys out looking for something to do,” he answered. “Y’all know how these good ole boys can be.”

  “You really think that, Chief?” Michael asked. “This was some kind of random act?”

  “Well, sure. We see this a lot. Boys out driving around, smashing mailboxes with their bats. Happens all the time. This here’s a bit different, but still some harmless fun.”

  That did it. I sprang from the chair and got as close to Bobby Lee as I could stand. “Harmless fun? Good ole boys? Petty vandalism? Are you nuts?”

  He backed away several steps. “Now, I didn’t mean it like that. Of course, it’s not harmless. Or fun for the owner. But now, Maggie, it’s not like someone cut your brake lines or rigged the thing to explode. Not like someone set out to hurt you. Car sitting out like this, you’re lucky the damage was visible to a passerby. You’ve had quite the run of bad luck as of late, little lady. Perhaps you ought to be more careful.”

  A chill raced up my spine, and the fear made me angry. I closed in on him. “What are you going to do about this? Or are you going to screw this up just like my husband’s murder investigation?”

  He reached for his handcuffs on his left side, and his gun on the other.

  Michael suddenly appeared at my side. “Maggie, why don’t you go upstairs and pack? I’ll take care of things down here. Okay?” He put his arm around me and pulled me away. “I’ll meet you on the front porch in fifteen minutes. We need to get on the road soon.”

  The road. Yes. “Okay.” I gave Bobby Lee one last dirty look for good measure and walked away. By the time I got to my bedroom, I’d calmed down a bit. I’d let Michael handle the situation downstairs while I focused on packing. First things first. Prioritize.

  What did one wear to a strip club? Particularly a short, middle-aged, slightly chunky woman. Boas and spandex immediately came to mind. Spiked heels? Low-cut top with a mini skirt? Push-up bra? Hell, I wasn’t performing, and I felt pretty sure that clean jeans and a nice blouse would do. Good thing too, considering I had none of the other items in my wardrobe. Deciding on sleepwear was easy. I pulled one of Rob’s T-shirts out of the drawer along with a pair of socks and tossed them into the bag. Toiletries out of the bathroom and I was ready.

  Michael had gassed up his car, mapped out the directions ahead of time, and we were all set to go. He said he called a local mechanic and my car would be towed later in the day.

  I thought about what Bobby Lee had said about brake lines and explosions. What was to stop someone doing those things once I had the car back? What was t
o stop someone from doing something else to hurt me? Someone planted that scrunchie to frame me, and I hadn’t been excessively sneaky about all the questions I was asking.

  We had a six-hour drive ahead of us, and I had my pen, legal pad, and Jack’s notebook stacked in my lap. Normally, I hate reading while riding because it’s too jiggly, but I couldn’t just stare out the window for such a long stretch of time and I truthfully couldn’t wait to get started on Jack’s notebook.

  I flipped it open to the first page. It read like a diary, a journal of sorts. Dated November 20, 1962. Man, this was a really old one. Jack had written in pen, and his handwriting was surprisingly legible. I soon got lost in the words in front of me.

  Joon left today. Can’t blame her. We tried to make things work, but we both knew it was hopeless. Just a matter of time before she hated me enough she couldn’t stand the sight of me anymore. She said she didn’t really hate me, but how could she not after what I did? It’s best this way. Joon said there were too many days she’d forget and go into his room to wake him up. Then she’d remember and it hurt all over again. Some days the hurt didn’t go away at all. She couldn’t stand the thought of him not being here for Thanksgiving. Maybe she wouldn’t have left if I told her more. If I talked more. All those times she wanted to, but I couldn’t. All those nights of her laying there crying. Then sleeping in his room. Boxing up his stuff. Clothes. Toys. All those damned stuffed animals. Too much and too soon. Should have let her pack them away for when she was ready.

  I lay the notebook facedown in my lap, unable to read anymore. I knew about packing up stuff, about having to be ready to do that task. Two years later, and besides a few of his shirts, I still had all of Rob’s belongings in boxes. If I hadn’t moved upstairs, I probably wouldn’t have touched any of it.

  “Well?” Michael asked. “Anything interesting in there?”

  I nodded, not trusting my voice. I turned the notebook over and resumed reading.

  Joon said to not look for her. Divorce papers will be coming in the mail soon. For me to look out for them, sign and mail them to the name on the envelope. She doesn’t want anything, nothing left for her here. Maybe she would’ve stayed

  Dec. 3, 1962

  Packed up all of the boy’s stuff, hauled them down to the center.

  Dec. 4, 1962

  Quiet in the house. Decided to keep writing this down, maybe a letter to Joon would help. No divorce papers yet.

  Dec. 8, 1962

  Papers came today.

  Dec. 12, 1962

  Signed the papers, sent them back.

  Dec. 13, 1962

  The boy would’ve been 4 tomorrow.

  Dec. 14, 1962

  Lost my job. Fight at work.

  Man, this was depressing. Let’s see—in 1962, Jack would’ve been in his mid- to late twenties. To’ve lost his son and then his wife … that was a lot to happen to a young man. I closed the notebook, put it under my legal pad and paperback.

  “Well?” Michael asked again.

  I filled him in on what I’d read so far.

  “Wow,” he said, “that’s rough. Nothing about the war in there?”

  “No. At least not yet. Jack was like a lot of the guys—didn’t talk about his time. They’d joked around, stuff about the Army being better then the Marines, or whatever, but nothing real serious.”

  “What did they talk about? I mean from what you’ve said, it was the same people day after day, right?”

  “Yeah. It’s funny because of the changes since I’ve worked there. When I started we opened at ten in the morning and closed at midnight. A couple of years ago, they started opening at five. Made the old farts unhappy, but the powers that be said they were losing money, so the hours were changed.”

  “What do you mean by old farts?”

  “The World War II and Korean vets. They’d plan their whole days around coming in. These guys are retired now, and for the most part their wives were happy to get them out of the house for awhile.” I chuckled at the memory. “I had a sign that said ‘VFW: Adult Daycare Center.’ The guys loved it, but Dick took it down. Asshole.”

  “Dick’s a real stickler for rules, isn’t he?”

  I nodded. “I’ll say. Well, for most things. He’ll make exceptions if it benefits the club. He’ll break or bend the rules if it’s important enough to him. Like, Pete for example. He wasn’t in the military, but he’ll step up and fill in when needed. They’ve needed him to be a part of the Honor Guard for funerals and parades. Like with Jack’s funeral a couple of days ago.”

  “Doesn’t he stand out? Since he’s not in uniform?”

  “No, not really. He— Whoa. I wonder if that’s what’s been bugging me about Sam. Brenda met him on Thursday. Could he be lying about having been in the military? Remember that website I told you about? Could Sam be the one with the fake medals?”

  Twenty-Six

  “Have you ever seen Sam’s medals?” Michael asked. He’d just pulled onto I-10, the route we’d be on for most of the trip.

  “Yeah, but I’ve never paid attention to them. Kevin, Dick, JC, all those guys have medals and ribbons. I don’t know what they all stand for. Brenda was interested because her brother’s pretty high up in the Army. A lieutenant colonel or something.”

  “What about the guys from the club? Have they ever said what rank they were?”

  “Oh, hell, I’m sure they have at one time or another, but I don’t remember. Really, other than the same couple stories, they didn’t talk that much about their time in the military. They talked about their wives, hunting, and sports. Oh, and recipes. And how much better life was years ago. These are the old farts I’m talking about. Kevin’s closer to my age and still works, so he doesn’t have that in common with Dick and Sam. Of course, JC still works, but he and Dick are really tight even though Dick’s like fifteen years older.”

  “Are their wives friends? “

  “Pam and Diane?” I snorted. “They spend time together because they have to. Between their being officers of the Ladies Auxiliary and their husband’s friendship, they’re pretty much forced together. I don’t think they have much in common beyond the VFW. And of course their kids. Darlene Reid married Scott Nelson.” Mentioning Scott made me think of Jack, and how Scott was close to the same age as Jack was in 1962. Compared to Jack then, Scott had it good now.

  “How are Pam and Diane different?” he asked.

  “Pam has money, Diane wants money, for starters. Pam’s assertive, Diane isn’t. Pam has a great sense of fashion, Diane’s totally clueless.” I thought about it some more. The way Pam stands up to JC, and how Diane was mousey with Dick. JC and Dick weren’t much alike, either, come to think of it. Maybe opposites do attract. I couldn’t imagine Pam and Dick together—both are too forceful.

  Except for JC’s display earlier, he doesn’t lose his temper often. He’s more annoying in a nasally, whiny way. Dick’s aggressive, but quiet. I remembered how I’d suddenly run into him the other day.

  “I just thought of something,” I told Michael. “When I was in the club talking to Sam, Dick all of a sudden showed up. Never heard him come in the back door. It was Monday. The beer delivery guy was there. Dick must’ve come in while the door was still open.”

  “So?”

  “I’m wondering how long Dick had been standing there. Damn. He was obviously eavesdropping on our conversation. I wish I could remember what Sam and I were talking about at the time.”

  “Don’t push it. Maybe you’ll remember later if you don’t think about it too much.”

  “Kind of like what’s been bugging me about Sam. Sheesh. So frustrating that I can’t think what it could be.” Unless it was the medals, but that didn’t make sense because Sam didn’t share his war experiences. What type of person would buy and wear fake medals? But Brenda had sent me that e-mail, so she must be on to somet
hing.

  My head was starting to ache. I rubbed my temples and then stretched out my arms.

  Michael looked at me. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m glad I ate that big breakfast, but now I’m sleepy.” I yawned. “Sorry.”

  “Plus you were up earlier than usual this morning. Go ahead and take a nap. I don’t mind.”

  “No, I’m okay. I want to make good use of our time.”

  “Okay. What else can you tell me about the Reids or the Nelsons? I’m curious about what you said about Pam having money. Does she come from a wealthy family? I can’t imagine their hardware store making them rich.”

  “No, not at all. JC was constantly whining when Lowe’s came to town. From the way he talks, they’re just getting by. And Pam grew up poor, lower-middle class. She talks about her past, her history of drug abuse on her lecture tours.”

  “Lecture tours? Pam actually goes on tours? Where? Who invites her?”

  “That’s what she calls them.” I shrugged. “And I think she invites herself. She goes to different schools in Clay and Duval Counties. Junior high and high schools. Pam even had a support group kind of thing going on for high school kids with known drug problems. But it got to be too much for her, so she stopped. Typical of the gossip mongers at the club, a rumor went around that she’d been kicked out because she was really dealing drugs.”

  “Does she get paid for these lectures?”

  “She might. It would explain where she gets the money for her clothes. She sure doesn’t shop at Wal-Mart like I do. And manicures—she goes to Jacksonville twice a month to get her nails done. Can you imagine?” I looked down at my short fingers and unpolished nails. “While I wouldn’t mind an occasional manicure, I sure wouldn’t throw away hard-earned money on one.”

  I laughed and continued, “Oh, that reminds me of Diane. I remember how she’d buy gambling tickets on the sly. Dick would be sitting at a table a few feet away, and Diane would come up to the bar, slide a twenty toward me, and I’d pass the tickets to her without him seeing. Diane never won much, and anything she did win, she put back in and lost.”