Last Call: A Cassiel Clarke Mystery, #3

By Chrissy Wissler

When the man lumbers up to the bar counter with its blinking, colored lights and shiny tinsel, Cass seriously considers dumping her good scotch right down his shirt. All Cass wants: a bit of quiet, a chance to wallow.

Especially considering her actual date went tromping off with her crazy, psychic grandmother to a graveyard to deal with a pesky ghost—or two. No graveyard for Cass. No getting involved in the family business, either.

But not only heart-lonely women visit bars. Some patrons, long gone, just keep on visiting...

"Last Call," another story in the riveting world of Cassiel Clarke and her reluctant ghost-gifts. A story of longing, sass, and persistent ghosts wearing Santa suits who refuse to close out their tabs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Cedar Publishing
• Release date: Nov 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386784296

Chrissy Wissler

Chrissy’s short fiction has appeared in the anthologies: Fiction River: Risk-Takers, Fiction River Presents: Legacies, Fiction River Presents: Readers' Choice, Deep Magic, and When Dreams Come True (writing as Christen Anne Kelley). She writes fantasy and science fiction, as well as a softball, contemporary series for both romance and young adult (Little League Series and Home Run). Before turning to fiction, Chrissy also wrote many nonfiction articles for publications such as Montana Outdoors, Women in the Outdoors, and Jakes Magazine. In 2009, Inside Kung Fu magazine awarded her with their ‘Writer of the Year’ award. Follow her blog on being a parent-writer at Parents and Prose.

Book preview

Last Call

Last Call

A Cassiel Clarke Story

Chrissy Wissler

Blue Cedar Publishing

Contents

Last Call

An Impatient Forest. One Stubborn Girl.

Also by Chrissy Wissler

Sneak Peak: Hidden in Time

About the Author

Last Call

Not another damn Santa joke.

The man weighing in about two tons lumbered his way up to the decked out, blinking lights and tinsel covered bar counter and squatted on the stool next to me. Didn’t matter that there were a dozen unoccupied stools (apparently Eddie’s was slow in the days leading up to Christmas—Christmas, however, was a different ball of wax).

Fatty was so heavy I swear I heard the stool groan and creak. Almost as much as I groaned when he told me, It’s a good joke. You’ll laugh. Promise.

Then he gave me some salesman, slimy smile that nearly tempted me to dump my good shot into his lap.

But then, that’d be a waste of good alcohol. And right now, I needed the alcohol.

The bar’s red and green garland scraped against my bare legs as my too-short skirt rode up just enough for the cheap plastic to make me itch something fierce. Almost as bad as the coming Santa joke. Almost as bad as me sitting here, feeling sorry for myself wearing this short little number from Macy’s, including matching heels which I never did, and for what?

All for a date that once again, didn’t happen.

Which wasn’t my fault.

Thanks a lot, Gran, I muttered, pulling the shot closer to me. The glass bumped over the uneven, slightly gouged counter. A highly loved counter. Well used by people like me, people who just needed to do a little wallowing, a little forgetting.

Great damn suggestion all right. First date? How about a graveyard.

Ha. As if I’d say yes.

Of course, that’s where Gran was right now.

With my date.

The fat man, thankfully didn’t catch the part about graveyards. Then again, if he had maybe he’d go find some other dressed up and blond and clearly single chick to bother.

And I was only sitting here, being single instead of cozied up to a nice, toasty fire because my dear, crazy-ass grandmother thought it’d be a great idea if I went grave visiting instead of snuggling up to a guy I’d been trying to get for over a year now. As if anyone in their right mind would chose a scary, cold graveyard over a roaring fire.

It didn’t matter that it was nearly Christmas. Didn’t matter that this was one of the nicer graveyards. Still had way more than enough lively occupants for my tastes.

Occupants who