I shook my head and sighed. “I don’t know. I think I’m afraid of making a mistake.”
“You know what I think?” Joe said. “I think you’re afraid of being happy. I think you think you don’t deserve happiness because of all that’s happened. Your father’s death, Ginny’s death, Lewis and Gary . . . all of it makes you feel like you’re responsible somehow, and you should do penance by staying miserable for the rest of your life.”
Frank nodded his agreement.
Were they right? Was I sabotaging my own happiness?
“Look at it this way,” Frank said. “If you accept his proposal, you can have a nice long engagement to make sure you’re doing the right thing. If it turns out you’re not, break it off.”
Now it was Joe’s turn to nod his agreement.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said. “I think I need a little more time to think about it.”
Joe pushed himself up from his chair, walked over, and kissed me on the cheek. “You know we won’t let you do anything stupid, right?”
That made me laugh.
“We got your back, Mack,” Frank said, also rising, albeit slowly, from his chair. He walked over and kissed my other cheek. “You deserve to be happy, Mack. Let it happen.” With that, the two of them left the room.
I sat a moment, thinking, and then I left the room and headed downstairs, across the bar, and up to my apartment. I made my way into my father’s study and stood there, looking at his desk, his chair, his bookcase. During the letter-writer scare, I had come in here one other time, hoping to find an answer. At the time, I had been to a church, thinking that one of the letter writer’s clues was hidden there. It hadn’t been, and after my search had proven fruitless, I had come into the study and taken my father’s Bible from the shelf, an action spurred by words the minister at the church had said to me. With the Bible in hand, I’d asked my father for help and guidance, appealing to his spirit, or ghost, or whatever might be out there. And then I opened the Bible to a random page, closed my eyes, and let my finger point to a bit of scripture.
What I’d found there had given me the answer I needed. It showed me where my interpretation of the clues had been wrong, and it turned me in the right direction. Unfortunately, the time I’d lost searching in the wrong place, and the car accident that happened as I was trying desperately to make it to the right place in time, had combined to cost Gary Gunderson his life.
Hoping for another helpful revelation, I once again held the Bible to my chest, looked up at the ceiling, and said, “Okay, Dad. You helped me once. Can you do it again? I could really use your advice.”
I waited a moment, almost expecting to hear his voice emanate from the ceiling. It didn’t, and so I opened the book to a random page, closed my eyes, and let my finger drop.
When I opened my eyes and looked, my finger was on a passage in the Book of John that read: “Peace is what I leave with you; it is my own peace that I give you. I do not give it as the world does. Do not be worried and upset; do not be afraid.”
I smiled, and then I cried. I spent another ten minutes there, having a private talk with my father. When I was done, I left and headed back up to the Capone Club room.
Duncan was still there with the others. He looked at me with concern. “You were gone a long time,” he said. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything is more than okay,” I said, smiling at him. Then I looked at the others in the room. “Thanks to all of you for being such good friends and advisers to me,” I told them. “All of you have become such big parts of my life. You’re my family.”
There were some murmured responses, half of which didn’t register, and I was surprised to see Cora looked a bit teary-eyed. I turned to Duncan. “You are the biggest part of my life,” I told him. “And with you, I can see a future, a different kind of family. I’m not sure it will be easy, and I suspect there will be more than a few bumps in the road ahead, but I’m willing to negotiate those bumps with you. So . . .” I took a deep breath and held it. My throat tightened, and I felt the sting of tears in my own eyes.
Duncan took my hand and smiled at me. “Mackenzie Dalton, are you saying you’ll marry me?”
I blew out my breath, and in the utter silence of the room it sounded shockingly loud. “Yes, Duncan. Yes, I am.”
Our kiss was backdropped by a cacophony of whoops, hollers, and clapping.
Chapter 29
Six months later . . .
I stood in the Capone Club room with my adopted family: Cora, Mal, Joe, and Frank.
“You look beautiful, Mack,” Cora said, and for only the second time in all the years I’d known her, I saw tears in her eyes.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Joe said. His brother and Mal both nodded their agreement.
“Thank you,” I said. I sighed, smoothed the front of the simple white dress I was wearing, and looked around at the otherwise empty room. “So much has happened here in this room, in this place,” I said. “And all of you have been through it all with me.”
“It’s been our pleasure,” Joe said with a warm smile.
“It’s been a hell of a ride,” Frank said, his eyes wide. “You’ve given us old codgers a new lease on life, Mack.”
“And there will be more to come,” Cora said. “Do you realize what you’ve created here, Mack? Do you realize what you, what all of us have accomplished?”
I did, and I said so, uttering the words “I do” for the first time that day. “I think the greatest, or at least the most important aspect of it all for me has been the validation I’ve received, the love and affection I feel, and the happiness I have now. And I have all of you to thank for it.” I turned and looked at Mal, who had so far remained silent. “This is a day of celebration for me, but also for you. I heard Wade Klein was convicted on all counts.”
He nodded, smiling at me. “No small thanks to you.”
I felt myself blush. “You were the one who put your life on the line,” I said. “And you almost lost it.” A wave of affection came over me, and on impulse, I lunged forward and hugged him. He hugged me back, and for a few seconds, we stayed that way. When we finally parted, I swiped at the tears in my eyes and looked him up and down. “May I say you are looking very handsome in that suit?”
“Thanks,” he said with a smile, his voice cracking ever so slightly.
“Is Sabrina here?”
He grinned at me. “She is.”
“Things are going well in that regard?”
“They are,” he said, looking and sounding a bit self-conscious.
“I’m glad. I knew the two of you would find a way to make it work. I’m so happy for you.”
“I suspect the next wedding we’ll be holding here is going to be theirs,” Cora said with a sly wink.
“Or yours and Tiny’s,” Joe said with a wink of his own.
Cora shook her head and held up a hand. “No, no. I’m not the marrying kind. But for now, Tiny and I are enjoying what we have.”
“I should go downstairs to make sure everything is ready,” Mal said. He walked over, kissed me on the cheek, and added, “Congrats to you and Duncan. I couldn’t be happier for the both of you.”
I was heartened to taste sincerity in his voice.
As soon as Mal left, I looked at the three remaining people and said, “I guess the time is nigh.”
“Any regrets?” Cora asked.
I shook my head. “None.”
It was true. For the past six months, Duncan and I had been sharing my living quarters, and I’d been amazed at how easily we had fallen into a routine that felt both comfortable and destined. Any reservations I’d had in the beginning had quickly faded away. True to his word, Duncan had stepped up when it came to the running of the bar, slipping behind the bar whenever he could, assisting with opening and closing duties, and even helping out in the kitchen a time or two, though it became obvious early on that his abilities when it came to cooking were limited.
We had managed to balance the joint police
work we did with the management of the bar without too many issues, though there were some nights when we didn’t get much sleep. Duncan admitted he enjoyed his role as a mixologist, and even said he could see the two of us running the place well into our old age and long after he retired from the police force.
It was ironic, and perhaps sad, that it was my father’s death that had led me along the path I’d taken to get to today, to my current life and happiness. While I mourned the fact that he, and my mother, couldn’t be here in body to share this important event with me, I felt they were there with me in spirit.
Strains of music rose up the stairs to us as the DJ I had hired for the event played the promenading music that would soon segue into the wedding march.
“That’s our cue,” Cora said. She ran a hand over the front of the dress she was wearing, and picked up the two bouquets of flowers sitting on a nearby table. She handed one to me, and then fiddled with her own, trying to come up with the right way to hold it.
“I should have forgone the flowers and just let you walk down the aisle holding your laptop,” I teased her.
“I do feel a bit naked without it,” she said, garnering a tolerant shake of the head from Joe. “Are we ready?”
“Let’s do it.”
Cora left the room, crossed the foyer, and paused a moment at the top of the stairs. Then she began her descent.
I looked at Joe and Frank, stuck both of my arms out to my sides as I clutched my flowers, and said, “Ready when you are.”
They each hooked an arm through one of mine, Joe on my right, Frank on my left. We exited the room, crossed the foyer, and then stopped at the top of the stairs. I looked down at all the people gathered below and smiled. Not far beyond the base of the stairs stood Duncan, looking utterly calm and impossibly handsome in his suit, with Mal at his side. As he gazed up at me, the love I saw in his eyes reassured me. Cora reached them and took her place off to one side. Standing right at the base of the stairs was the justice of the peace.
I took a moment to scan the crowd seated behind them, mentally doing an inventory of everyone who was there. My eyes settled briefly on Billy, who had just graduated from law school and was studying for his bar exam. I was both proud and happy for him, even though I was also saddened by the knowledge that he would soon no longer be one of my regular bartenders. I was even happier to see that Alicia was seated beside him, and the two of them were holding hands.
All my staff members were there; I had closed the bar for the occasion and hired temporary bartenders and waitstaff to work the reception. Everyone from the Capone Club was present, too, people who had at one time been strangers but now felt like extended family to me. And peppered throughout the crowd were several members of the police force, including Roberta Dillon, Tyrese and Nick, Chief Holland, and even Jimmy Patterson, Duncan’s one-time partner and someone I’d suspected—wrongly, as it turned out—of being one of the people behind the letter-writer case.
Then I spied a trio of people sitting at the very back of the crowd who made me smile. Irene and Jerry Varner were there, and sitting between them was Felicity, a huge smile on her face as she looked up at me.
The Varners, who to my delight had decided to adopt Felicity, had made great strides with the child. I had invited them to come, of course, but despite the progress Felicity had made, I’d had my doubts about whether she would be able to tolerate the venue. I’d been making regular visits to them so I could spend time with Felicity, but the demands of running the bar, making my wedding arrangements, and a run of crimes that had required my presence as a consultant had kept me away for the past few weeks. So I was delighted to see all three of them in attendance.
The DJ switched the music to the wedding march—a prompt that we needed to get moving—and with one last look at Joe and Frank, we began our descent. I was halfway down when I heard Felicity yell “Mack!” at the top of her voice, and then start to clap her hands.
Everyone laughed, and the last of my nervousness faded away.
I was on top of the world as I took my place beside Duncan, and turned to face the JP. I was more than ready to do my last call as a single woman.
Recipes
Duncan’s Dynamite
½ oz. vodka
2½ oz. cold cranberry juice
2½ oz. cold orange juice
Splash of hot sauce
Mix all ingredients in a highball glass and top off with a splash of hot sauce.
Cold Mother
½ cup cold milk
2½ tbsp. half-and-half
1 tsp. vanilla flavoring
4 tsp. confectioner’s sugar
2½ oz. bourbon
Ground nutmeg (for garnish)
Fill a cocktail shaker with ice, and add milk, half-and-half, vanilla, sugar, and bourbon. Shake for 30 seconds and then strain into a martini glass. Sprinkle ground nutmeg on top.
Twisted Sister
½ oz. 151 rum
½ oz. white rum
½ oz. sour apple schnapps
1 oz. pineapple juice
½ tsp. lemon juice
Splash of grenadine
Cherry (for garnish)
Fill a highball glass with ice, add the rums, schnapps, pineapple juice, and lemon juice and mix. Stir in a splash of grenadine. Garnish with a cherry.
Deep Dark Secret
1½ oz. dark rum
½ oz. light rum
½ oz. coffee liqueur
½ oz. cream or milk
Fill a cocktail shaker with ice, add all the ingredients, and shake. Strain into a chilled glass.
Wedding Cake
1½ oz. amaretto
½ oz. white crème de cacao
2 oz. cold milk
2 oz. pineapple juice
Fill a cocktail shaker with ice, add all the ingredients, and shake. Strain into a chilled glass.
If you’ve enjoyed Allyson K. Abbott’s books,
please watch for her work,
as she writes under the name
Annelise Ryan!
Dead In The Water
(A Mattie Winston Mystery)
is available at your favorite bookseller and e-retailer!
Death is the ultimate equalizer. It knows no boundaries and visits everyone eventually: the rich, the poor, the young, the old, the beautiful, and the ugly. Sometimes it arrives with relentless predictability; at other times it comes with stealth and surprise. Its arrival may be peaceful, quiet, and well ordered, or it may be agonizing, brash, and messy. The only reliable predictor is that someday it will come. I think knowing this is what gives us humans drive and motivation. It forces us to make the most—or at least the best—of the time we have, because we don’t really know when our clocks might stop ticking.
Determining where, when, and how death arrived for someone is the basis of my job. My name is Mattie Winston and I work part-time for the medical examiner’s office as a medico-legal death investigator. That’s a big fancy term for someone who assists with autopsies and the investigative part of death. Sometimes the investigative part is a slam dunk, like the drunken driver who dies wrapping his car around a tree, or the terminal cancer patient who passes on peacefully in her home. Other times the investigative part can be an annoying, vague, and troubling puzzle of circumstances that may require days, weeks, months, or even years to figure out. When a death is the result of a homicide, it’s the job of my office to assist the police in figuring out who, what, when, where, why, and how. The combined efforts of our scientific procedures and law enforcement’s investigative work will often provide the necessary answers. But not always. Sometimes we end up with an unsolved case. And sometimes—as is the case with the homicide I’m focused on today—it’s a combination of our hard work and a bit of dumb luck. Unfortunately for me, the dumb luck in this case was mine and it might provide enough of a legal loophole for the killer to get off.
Also unfortunate for me is today I have to testify for the first time in the three years I’ve been doing t
his job. Since investigation is a key part of what I do, I often get involved in the finding and seizing of evidence and I’ve been subpoenaed before to testify. I’ve been coached on the process over the past two years by my boss, Izthak Rybarceski (Izzy to those of us who know and love him), the medical examiner here in Sorenson, Wisconsin. But up until now, I’ve never had to testify because the cases settled before going to trial, or the evidence I was involved with collecting was either determined irrelevant or simply accepted by both parties.
The investigative process in this current case took a different path than most, however, and the discovery of some key evidence is being contested by the defendant. I’m not going to be able to escape the courtroom this time, and the prosecuting attorney on the case, a thirtysomething man named Roger Beckwith, tried to ease my nervousness by walking me through the planned questions, reminding me to answer only what is asked, and cautioning me not to let my nerves rattle me to the point that I start babbling. Roger Beckwith, though, is only half of the equation. There’s the defense attorney for me to reckon with as well.
I’m sitting outside the courtroom, watching the occasional person walk by and waiting for my summons. There are no other people sitting out here with me, and I’ve been waiting for over half an hour. The murmur of whatever is going on behind the closed courtroom doors is indistinct yet intimidating. At least three times I’ve caught myself chewing on my lower lip, and twice I’ve had to force my left leg to stop bouncing up and down with nervous tension. It’s a little after nine in the morning and I’ve just finished my third cup of coffee, but I still feel logy, thanks to a sleepless night marked by nervous anxiety and a kid who didn’t want to sleep. I thought the coffee might get and keep me alert, but now I’m worried I’ll have to pee really bad just about the time I’m delivering my key testimony, and I’ll either have to ask to be excused or wet my pants. The bathroom isn’t too far away, but I’m afraid if I go, they’ll call me to testify and think I’ve flown the coop. I make a mental note to buy and wear a pair of Depends if I have to do this again. I’ve never wet myself before, but I figure testifying in a criminal court case might be enough to scare the piss out of me.
Last Call Page 29
