Rob Cornell - Ridley Brone 01 - Last Call (30 page)

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Authors: Rob Cornell

Tags: #Mystery: Thriller - P.I. - Humor - Karaoke Bar - Michigan

The crowd wasn’t huge, but those sitting at the tables or by the bar all seemed to be having a good time. I managed to hire Mandy back, but she had the night off. A new girl, Alicia, ran the floor while Paul worked the bar. No one threatened to trash the place, and, so far, we hadn’t mysteriously run out of any top-shelf liquor.

I didn’t even recognize her when she walked in.

“He’s good,” Autumn said.

My head spun for a second while I tried to connect the familiar voice with the woman standing in front of me. She had chopped her hair, even shorter than how she wore it in high school, and she had bleached it. She never wore much make-up before, but had slathered on heavy doses of lipstick, eye shadow, and foundation. She wore a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up.

When our eyes met and recognition hit me, she pulled the hood back and almost smiled.

Almost wasn’t even close to good enough anymore.

I reached for my gin and tonic, but Paul hadn’t poured me one yet. “You got a lot of nerve coming in here.”

While Palmer had put out an all points on Autumn that night, she had managed to slip through the cracks and disappear. I never expected her to come back. Now that she was here, I couldn’t imagine things going any other way.

Autumn gestured to the seat across from mine. “Can I sit?”

“No.”

The man finished his tune and took a bow. Holly held up a little square of paper with the next name on it and announced, “Hal! An old regular. Come on up, Hal.”

Half of the patrons cheered him on, while others jeered, and a few even tried to block his way to the stage.

“Come on, Hal,” Holly prompted and helped him up onto the stage when he finally made it.

He put his arms up in a victory V, his hairy chest nearly popping the three buttons he’d bothered fastening on his silk shirt. His gold medallion flashed under the new lighting. The first strains of Tom Jones’s “It’s Not Unusual” played through the speakers. Now even some of the jeering crowd began clapping and hooting.

For a second, I expected the remodeled
High Note
to have somehow cured Hal of his bad singing, but when he started belting away, he made it clear he was the same old Hal.

Autumn eyed the stack of cocktail napkins on the table in front of me. I pulled the stack out of her reach.

“You’re blocking my view of the stage,” I said.

“That’s all you have to say to me? I’m blocking your view.”

I had an Encyclopedia Britannica of things to say to her, but I had no intention of giving her a damn word. I put in my time the last few months finding my own closure without her help. She could do the same without mine.

“Police still looking for you, Autumn?”

She tucked her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. “We have a daughter out there. A daughter we made together. Don’t you care about that?”

I pointedly leaned to the side to look past her at the stage. Hal gyrated his pelvis and bobbed his head while flashing his cheering/groaning audience a peace sign.

“I want your help, Ridley,” Autumn said. “I want to find her.”

“I’ve already started looking.”

“You have?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

She sat down across from me even though I’d told her not to, her movements quick and excited. She tried to reach across the table and take my hands, but I pulled away and tucked them safely in my lap.

“You’re angry with me, because I told Daddy about your plan.”

If she was just figuring that out, nothing I said would ever reach her.

“You have to understand. He was my father. I didn’t want to hurt my dad.”

“You killed your dad.”

Through clenched teeth she said, “I never wanted that to happen.”

An older woman with blue-gray hair stood at the edge of the stage and offered up a rose to Hal. Hal took the rose, then took her hand, and helped her up on stage with him. They danced together, looking into each other’s eyes while Hal sang. The lady smiled as if she had no idea Hal’s voice rang as flat as a nail head.

I sighed. “What do you want, Autumn?”

“I told you. I want to help find our daughter.”

“For Christ’s sake, are you insane? First off, I don’t need or want your help. Secondly, you are a God damned fugitive. You’re lucky I don’t call the police and have you dragged out of here.”

Her chin quivered, but her eyes remained dry.

“My mother died when I was eight years old. Daddy didn’t wait a day after her funeral before having me sleep in the same bed with him. I was eight, Ridley, when he started to touch me and kiss me and look at me like he used to with Mom.”

My stomach rolled. I refused to show any sympathy, though. It wouldn’t do her any good. It would only feed her illusion that I would help her.

She glanced at the napkins again, but didn’t take one. “He didn’t start fucking me until I was twelve. He was kind enough to wait until after I reached puberty.”

“Why tell me this? In one breath you praise your father, in the next you tell me about these horrible things he’s done to you. What do you want from me?”

She started to speak, but choked on her own words. When she finally found her voice, it came out pinched. “I want my daughter.”

“No,” I said. “You don’t get her. You don’t deserve her.”

Hal finished singing and dipped his new lady friend like a gentleman, but when he lifted her back up, the woman grabbed Hal by the collar and laid one on him.

The bar filled with hoots and whistles.

I rubbed my forehead. “I know your life growing up had to have been seriously fucked. I get that. It makes me sick to think about what your father did to you. But I can’t have you in my life. And if I find our daughter, I’m not sure I want you in hers, either.”

“What gives you the right to keep me from her?”

“I’m giving you a chance to leave here on your own. Don’t push me.”

“You son of a bitch. She’s my daughter, too.”

I stared her right in the eyes. “Get out of my bar, Autumn.”

I watched her leave.

Two weeks later, police caught Autumn staying at a motel in Battle Creek. Palmer tried to tell me the details of her arrest, but I didn’t want to hear about it. I never wanted to hear about Autumn again.

Devon comes into the
High Note
an hour before opening on Wednesdays for his singing lessons. As a joke, I started stocking frozen mini pizzas, and Paul automatically heats them up when Devon walks in the door. After the lessons, Devon and I talk about old times, how much we hated high school, what we thought of this teacher or that, or some girl we both used to drool over. Sometimes we talk about Tom. We’ve decided to remember the Tom from high school, and let the adult Tom rest in peace.

“Seems like you’re getting along a lot better now,” Devon once said while looking around at the
High Note
.

I often watch the door for Sheila. I called her cell phone several times after she left. For a while it went straight to her voice mail, but the last time I called a recording told me the service had been canceled. I did some checking with local airlines that flew to Florida, but none of them have a record of any Sheila Magnor booking a flight. I have no idea where she went to, or if she’ll ever return. Since I decided to stick it out with the
High Note
, I’ll be here if she ever does.

Last I heard of Sam Jawhar he was still working at the same diner. I visited him once after things settled. He thanked me for helping him, then politely asked never to see me again. I understood.

During the day, before the bar opens, I hang out in the office above the bar. My parents only ever used the upstairs office as a storage room, preferring to stay down in the thick of things as often as possible. I cleared out all the boxes, installed bookshelves, added filing cabinets, a desk, and a computer with cable modem.

On the wall hangs an empty frame. One of these days I’m going to get my Michigan P.I. license, and I’m going to put it in that frame.

In the mean time, this office houses everything I need to continue my search for my daughter. License or not, I’m a detective. This is what I do.

I will find her.

About the Author

An accidental nomad, Rob Cornell grew up in suburban Detroit, then spent five years living in Los Angeles before moving to Chicago to receive a BA in Fiction Writing from Columbia College. He has traveled full circle, now living in rural southeast Michigan with his wife, two kids, and dog, Kinsey—named after Sue Grafton’s famous detective. In between moving and writing, he’s worked all manner of odd jobs, including lead singer for an acoustic cover band and a three-day stint as assistant to a movie producer after which he quit because the producer was a nut job.

For more information and to contact the author, please visit rob-cornell.com.

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Books by Rob Cornell

The Lockman Chronicles

Darker Things (The Lockman Chronicles #1)

Dark Legion (The Lockman Chronicles #2)

Darkest Hour (The Lockman Chronicles #3)

Mysteries and Thrillers

Red Run

Last Call (A Ridley Brone Mystery)

The Hustle (A Ridley Brone Mystery)

Writing as Ella Scott

Sing Out Your Dead

(A Kristy Silver Show Choir Mystery)

Acknowledgements

This novel has special meaning to me. I wrote this while a student at Columbia College Chicago under the instruction of romance wunderkind, Patricia Rosemoor. Her instruction and encouragement helped push me to the next level in my fiction writing. And because of her, a group of lucky students formed what we lovingly called the Chicago Contingent—a writers group all working toward writing professional commercial fiction. I have them to thank as well. Especially Marc Paoletti, Dana Kaye, Darwyn Jones, Marcus Sakey, Julia Borcherts, and the late (and sorely missed) Frank Crist. You guys rock the writing world.

My wife, Beth, does more than put up with my moodiness and overactive imagination. She’s my first reader, my cheerleader, and my best friend. Not to mention she’s hot stuff. I love you, Angel. Thank you for everything.

Published by Paradox Publications

Cover Image © Tea/Dreamstime

Last Call
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.