Lilliput Bar Mystery Read online

  The Lilliput Bar Mystery

  By Edna Curry

  Copyright Edna Curry, 2011

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This is a work of fiction. All names in this story are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

  No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without written permission of the author, except for short excerpts for reviews.

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  ***________________________________________

  The Lilliput Bar Mystery

  By Edna Curry

  Chapter 1

  “Goodnight, Kathy,” Mildred Weeks called to the last of her servers. She locked up her Lilliput Bar after the young woman. She activated the security system and snapped off the main overhead lights, leaving only the dim night light on. That allowed her to see well enough to do the routine tasks of totaling out the cash register and carrying the cash tray to her desk in the little back room serving as her office.

  The stale odors of hamburgers, French fries and spilled beer hung in the air. But at least she no longer had thick cigarette smoke to deal with and aggravate her asthma. The state law banning smoking had been a godsend for her health.

  The bar was eerily silent now, sending a shiver up her spine. She’d never liked working alone at night, especially since her husband died. For forty years they’d worked together. He’d always been with her or within easy reach by phone. Now she had no one and the loneliness constantly ached within her.

  She snapped on the bright overhead light as she entered her office, glanced around the crowded room and told herself she was being silly. She set the money tray down and poured herself another cup of black coffee, the umpteenth one she’d had today. She sipped the hot brew, wrinkling her nose at the bitter taste. She stretched tired muscles, yawned and decided she really needed to get out and exercise more. Being on her feet all day tending bar didn’t keep her in shape and these long days were getting to her, especially now that she was older. But long hours went with owning your own business, especially a small one. No point in fussing about something she couldn’t change.

  Changing the radio to an all-music station to relieve the silence, she sat at her desk and began to count the day’s receipts. It was a familiar job and she flipped through the bills and keyed the amounts in her adding machine with quick efficiency.

  Thankfully everything balanced within a couple of dollars. Since making change in a noisy room full of people was conducive to errors, being off a few dollars was usual and didn’t upset her. She trusted each of her servers, felt sure they were honest and did their best. She made up the deposit slip, slipped it and the cash in a bag and stood up to leave.

  She snapped off the radio and the room was suddenly silent. Then a shuffling sound behind her made the hairs on her neck rise in warning. Whipping around, she stared at the tall figure in worn jeans leaning on the door jam, smiling at her.

  “Hello, Mildred.”

  “What…? How did you get in here?”

  “Walked in the front door like any other customer. I got a little sick. Just came out of the bathroom and you’d locked up.”

  “Oh,” she said, relief making her breath whoosh and her knees weak. Only a mistake. She’d locked a customer inside. Didn’t happen often, but had before. She should have checked the bathrooms. “Sorry. I thought everyone had left. I’m just leaving. I’ll let you out.”

  An odd little laugh greeted her words, sending a cold shiver up her spine. Something wasn’t right here. Trying to bluff it out, not show her nervousness, she smiled, tucked the bank bag and her purse under her arm. She strode toward the door, gesturing for the person to walk with her to the front entrance.

  As she stepped close, the person pulled a gun. “I’ll take those,” were the last words she heard.

  “No!” she screamed, reaching out, attempting to grab at a thick arm. Her fingernails raked at bare skin, but she couldn’t hold on.

  Several pops broke the quiet and she saw only blackness as she fell.

  ***

  The shrill jangle of my phone on my bedside table woke me. With an irritated groan I pushed aside my soft, warm blanket and opened an eye to see my clock sitting beside the phone. Two ten a.m. I’d worked late last night so I wanted to ignore it and roll over for some more badly needed sleep. But I knew I couldn’t do that.

  I run a small one-woman locksmith business in Canton, a small central Minnesota town. I couldn’t afford to miss any calls, however inconvenient they were, so I pushed myself to a sitting position, grabbed the phone and mumbled, “Hello?”

  “Is this Cassie, the twenty-four-hour locksmith?” a male voice asked.

  “That’s me, Cassie Jennings,” I replied, yawning.

  “This is Tom, the dispatcher at the County Sheriff’s office. We have someone locked out of his car in Landers. Can you take the call?”

  “Sure,” I said. I swung my feet to the floor. Snapping on the bedside lamp, I reached for a pad and pen from my nightstand to write down directions.

  “He’s in Landers, in the parking lot behind the Lilliput Bar. You know the place?”

  Great. Another drunk closing up the bar. But money was money and at least this one was only ten miles away. “Yes, Tom. I’ll go right over. Thanks.”

  I hung up, laid the unneeded pad and pen aside. I picked up the jeans and sweatshirt I’d discarded on the chair the night before and started to put them back on. I glanced at the thermometer on my wall as I slipped into my clothes, making sure I was dressed properly for the temperature outdoors. It read sixty degrees, so I skipped the coat and slipped on my rain slicker. I always kept my tools ready to go in my work van, so I just grabbed my flashlight and ran downstairs.

  The night was cloudy and a few big drops of rain hit me in the face. I hoped it didn’t pour while I worked. I really hated working in the rain. As I backed my van out of my driveway, I glanced back at my two story frame house. It’s maybe seventy years old, but well built and sturdy. I knew it was too big for one person when I bought it, but the price was right and I’d really been tired of dealing with a landlord. I wanted the freedom to control my own environment. When something needs fixing, I either fix it or know why it hasn’t been done. No arguing with someone else about repairs. Either I have the money or the repairs have to wait until I do. Besides, maybe someday, I’ll have a family of my own to fill it. Well, that was a nice dream anyway.

  I pulled out onto the highway. The rain held off and there was almost no traffic as I drove along the blacktop road through open, slightly rolling farm country to Landers. October fog hung low in the valley as I descended the hill into the little town and the glow of the red stoplight burned through the gloom. Their one traffic light stood at the junction of the two highways, just west of the bridge across the St. Croix River, a half block from my destination. At this time of the morning, the town looked almost deserted. The Lilliput Bar and all the other businesses had closed. Main Street was quiet and dark except for the soft glow of streetlights and the headlights of a passing vehicle.

  When I pulled into the parking lot, I saw only a few vehicles sat at the far end of the lot in the parking spaces for the apa
rtments over the businesses. There were only three cars left in the main lot, so I easily identified the tall, slim guy standing beside a new Ford sedan as my client.

  He sent me a belligerent stare as I parked. Uneasily, I eyed the man. I got out a blank bill and wrote his license plate number on it. I always did this, just in case of trouble, like if the client drove off without paying or worse, tried to attack or rob me. As a reasonably attractive young woman working alone, I’m often told by the Sheriff, as well as other concerned friends and relatives, that I shouldn’t be doing night calls to strangers. So far, I’ve never had a serious problem.

  “Hello. Having a problem, eh?” I sent him as cheery a smile as I could muster at this time of night.

  “Yeah. Sorry. Nasty night.” He hunched deeper in his wet black leather jacket as he waited for me to get out my tools and unlock his vehicle.

  “That’s okay.” I shivered when a cold, wet gust of wind struck me. I should have grabbed my warmer jacket. Forgot about the wind-chill factor.

  “Sure that won’t hurt my car? It’s new.” He eyed the tools in my hands. He sounded friendly enough, but his words were slurred. The bar stench of stale beer and sweat wafted off him.

  I did my best not to gag. “I can see that. Nice wheels. Nope, won’t hurt your car a bit.” I slid the wedge into the top groove of the door, followed it with my little airbag tool and pumped it to expand the opening I’d made. Slipping a specially shaped, long tool inside, I began the tricky quest to unlock the door. He leaned close to watch me and I handed him the flashlight to hold.

  “Lose your keys?” I asked to make conversation. Keeping them talking makes the time go faster and clients don’t notice how long it takes me to get it open. Sometimes I got lucky and had a vehicle open in seconds. Often it took longer than I liked.

  “Naw. Just locked them in my car. Must have dropped out of my pants pocket as I got out, ’cause I don’t see ’em in the ignition,” he complained, his words slurring. “Had to call 9-1-1 on my cell phone. Couldn’t find any place open with a phone or phone book.”

  “Where you from?” Glancing down, I noticed he wore faded blue jeans tucked into expensive cowboy boots, tooled with a curly design.

  “Minneapolis.” He leaned into his car, steadying himself against the frame. He readjusted the beam of the flashlight to where I needed it. The light reflected off metal on the floorboard. Ah, there were his keys. I breathed a sigh of relief at the sight. I hated it when a client thought their keys were inside and they weren’t. So then they usually expected me to make them a new key on the spot. Like I’m a magician or something, when they didn’t have the codes or anything for me to work from.

  “Are you sure you should be driving tonight?” I asked, glancing up at him. Under his black baseball cap, his brown eyes glared back at me, as though daring me to challenge him. I shivered, this time not from the cold. I dropped my gaze back to my work.

  “Yeah, sure. Only had a couple of beers,” he grunted.

  Yeah, right. “We have a cab service I could call for you. Or there’s a motel just up the street,” I suggested, working on getting my metal rod at the right spot to unlock the door. Was I aiding and abetting a drunk driver? Sometimes my job involved gray areas. Maybe I should have asked dispatch for a cop for back-up and let him arrest the guy. Talk about a good way to kill my business. If word got around that making a call to me brought on the cops…

  “Don’t need no damn cab or motel room. Gotta get home. Hafta work in the morning.”

  “Uh, huh.” First you’ll have to sober up. Probably have a bad hangover in the morning and you’ll call in sick, anyway. I glanced at him. His dark eyes above heavy dark brows challenged me. His stance was angry and impatient. I shivered again and turned back to my work. At least there was little traffic this time of the night, so maybe he’d make it home in one piece.

  In a few minutes I’d succeeded in unlocking the car in spite of my sleep clogged state. When I opened the door, his car alarm sounded. He reached in, grabbed the keys from the floor and put them in the driver’s door to quiet the noise.

  I put my tools in the back of the van and went to the front to finish filling out a bill for him. I told him the price and started my usual reassurance speech. “Your car should still be under warranty. That usually includes roadside assistance. I’ll give you a bill. If you send it in to the car manufacturer, they’ll reimburse you. The details and address are in your owner’s manual,” I told him, wondering if he’d even remember what I’d said in the morning.

  “Nah, don’t need no bill. I got cash.” He whipped out a wad of bills, peeled off the correct amount and handed it to me.

  “Whatever you say. Thanks,” I said. Tucking the money in my jeans, I climbed back into my van. Before I got my key in the ignition, he’d gotten in his car and pulled away. He raced out onto the Highway 95, narrowly missing an arriving bakery van, and headed north. The van driver blew his horn at my client and I saw him shake his fist. My client ignored him and sped on.

  I gaped after him. Hadn’t he said he lived in Minneapolis and had to get back to go to work in the morning? So why had he driven off in the opposite direction?

  The van stopped at the front door of the Lilliput Bar. The driver stepped out, went around to yank open the side door. He pulled out a wheeled cart and began loading trays of bakery goods onto it.

  Surprised at the bakery’s late night delivery to a dark business, I sat in my van, curious enough to hang back and watch him. Why was he stopping at a closed business? But he pulled out a key ring, unlocked the door and went inside with his cart load of trays. I knew the bar had a security system, but I didn’t hear an alarm sound. Apparently he had access to deliver buns there whether or not the place was open for business. Yawning, I shrugged and drove home to get back to my bed. I had a job scheduled for ten in the morning and I needed a couple hours of shut eye first.

  ***

  At ten a.m., cook and server Regina Smith parked in her reserved spot behind the Lilliput Bar and eased her large body out of her station wagon. She waddled around the building, stepping carefully around several puddles the overnight rain had left in the uneven parking lot. Since Mildred had gotten paranoid after a robbery a couple of years ago and installed the alarm system, employees had to go in through the front door.

  They didn’t open until eleven, so Reggie had an hour to get the bar ready for business. She’d make up a batch of her special chili, along with her usual opening chores. Jack was coming in at a quarter to eleven, so she wouldn’t be alone when they opened the doors for the lunch crowd. Not many people ate lunch at the bar, but a few did. And then there were always a couple who used their food as a cover for downing the first drink of the day.

  She unlocked the door, and stepped inside to punch in the code to keep the alarm from screeching. But there was no need. It was already off. She frowned and looked around suspiciously, her heart pounding and her stomach jumping as she snapped on the overhead lights. “Mildred? Jack? Is someone here?”

  If Mildred had come in already for some reason, why hadn’t she turned on the lights? Had Mildred forgotten to set the alarm before she left last night? No, that wasn’t right. The trays of hamburger buns sat on the table in front of her. The bakery driver had made a late night delivery like he always did. He must have been the one who forgot to reset the alarm.

  Still, the hairs on the back of Reggie’s neck bristled. Cell phone in hand, her fingers hovering over the nine and the one, she began a walk-through. She got as far as the open doorway to Mildred’s office when she saw her.

  Mildred lay face up on the floor just inside her office, her unseeing eyes staring at the ceiling. Horror swept over Reggie and a panicked scream ripped from her throat. She knew immediately Mildred was beyond her help. Swallowing the acid that threatened in her throat, she backed away and punched in 9-1-1. She turned and ran back to the front door as she told dispatch what was the problem.

  ***

  As luck
would have it, Sheriff Ben was at the other end of the county, investigating an accident. Deputy Tom was working dispatch because the woman who usually worked that job was out with the flu. Tom hated making the call to Ben, but knew he had to or Ben would have him on the carpet later. Ben liked to keep abreast of what was happening in every part of his county.

  When the sheriff answered, Tom explained about the murder. “It’s Mildred, the owner at the Lilliput Bar. Shot dead in her office.”

  “Send Detective Martin. He used to work homicide in Minneapolis.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I thought he said he came out here to get away from murder investigations.”

  “What he said and what he’s assigned to do ain’t always the same thing,” Ben barked back. “Nobody else in our department is qualified. It’s either send Chance Martin or call in help from Minneapolis. I’ll let Chance decide if he needs more help later.”

  Tom cringed at Ben’s tone, and chewed his lip. Best he tell Ben the rest while there was a phone line between them. “Another thing, boss.”

  “Yeah? What?”

  “Uh, well, we had a call from a guy locked out of his car about two this morning behind that bar. I couldn’t get anybody else that time of night, so I had to call Cassie.”

  “You sent that pretty young gal out in the middle of the night for what was probably a drunk closing up the bar?”

  “I know you’ve said to always call one of the men for those, but none of the other locksmiths answered their phones.”

  “Why didn’t you send one of the officers, then?” Ben’s voice had a dangerous edge, now. “Or at least send an officer as back-up?”

  “They were all busy with that fire on the west end of the county,” Tom said, swallowing hard. At least he didn’t have to meet Ben’s sharp brown eyes when he told him over the phone lines. Maybe Ben would have cooled off a bit by the time he got back to the office. After all, Ben hadn’t been available himself, since he’d been out of town for a family wedding.