Milkshakes and Murder

by Christy Murphy

  "Hey!" Sheila called out to us as she dropped food off at one of her tables.

  We waved. She came up to us while we waited to be seated.

  "Lunch was so much fun the other day," she said. "It's such a treat to eat some food other than what we've got here." She leaned in to whisper to Wenling. "People are complaining left and right. They can't wait for you to re-open–especially the people who want takeout."

  Wenling beamed.

  "Sit anywhere you can find a clean table," Sheila called out to us as she headed back to the kitchen. "Al is out shopping. We're out of most everything. If you eat fast, you'll miss him."

  I relaxed a little, but knew we had no intention of eating fast. "Why do we want to get in a fight with Al?" I whispered to Mom as we looked for a clean open table.

  "I want to clear the air," Mom said.

  "This has something to do with how close the restaurant is to the park, doesn't it?" I asked.

  Mom didn't answer and pointed to an open table. "Hurry before those other people take it."

  Just as another party spotted it, Wenling sprinted to the open table and slid into the booth. Her speed impressed me. The maneuver looked like one of those guys on a television show that slides across the front of a car to get to the driver's side door.

  "Good job," Mom said sliding next to her in the booth. I took my seat opposite them.

  Sheila took our order, and I told myself that I wouldn’t rush my lunch. I needed to learn to accept my discomfort with conflict and not hide from it. It was ridiculous to be a grown woman and feel this way. Come to think of it, no more hiding behind anything for any reason. Except maybe from something like a gun or a bear, but other than that. No. More. Hiding.

  The food was slow. I’d downed two diet sodas and a cup of coffee before my grilled cheese sandwich arrived. I’d wanted a cheeseburger, but they were out of burgers. Wenling took a bite out of her grilled steak with mashed potatoes.

  "How is it?" I asked.

  "It’s awful. So tough and dry!" she said with a big smile.

  Mom had just ordered a coffee and a bowl of soup. Wenling pushed her head over Mom’s bowl and smiled again. I assumed that it wasn’t up to Wenling’s standards either.

  I took a bite of my grilled cheese and pretended not to notice that half the cheese wasn’t melted and glanced around the diner. It was just Sheila, a busboy, and the cook today. They were overwhelmed. The restaurant wasn't staffed to handle the entire town’s worth of business.

  Sheila came by with another diet soda for me. I hadn’t even finished my last one. "Heads up, Al is here. Do you want some takeout boxes?"

  I braced myself and shook my head no. This was it. "Actually, I want to talk to him," Mom said. "Tell him I’m here."

  "Well all right," Sheila said. "Looks like we might have a fireworks show today," she mused as she headed to the kitchen. My face heated thinking that the rest of the restaurant was staring at us. I took a deep breath and forced myself to look around instead of burying my eyes in my lunch. No more hiding. To my surprise, a few people were looking our way, but most of the patrons weren’t aware of the impending altercation.

  The thud of a hand pushing open the swinging door of the kitchen drew my attention. Al marched into the dining room heading straight for our table. All eyes were on him, which I found comforting.

  "I thought I told you to stay out," Al said as he stormed the rest of the way to our table.

  Another deep breath. Here we go. I looked around. Yup. Everyone watching now. Don’t just sit there, Christy. Be different. Say something. Anything. It couldn’t hurt.

  "Hi!" I squeaked out and waved. His eyes shot to me. Okay. Maybe it could hurt.

  "You remember my daughter, Christy," Mom said to Al.

  "No."

  "That’s right," Mom continued, "she’d moved out before you came. Well she works with me now."

  Mom’s politeness made it difficult for the man to keep his anger. "Jo, you’re not supposed to be here. Don’t make me throw you out."

  "Al, there’s no reason for that. I’ve come to discuss important town business with you."

  "I knew it!" he yelled and slammed his hand on the table. Silverware jumped, and plates rattled. It startled everyone in the restaurant including Mom. Al turned away from us and started back to the kitchen. I thought that would be the end of it, but Mom wasn't one to let things linger over her head. She got to the bottom of things.

  "You said you 'knew it'" Mom called out to him. "What did you know?"

  Al turned and glared at Mom. "Listen, lady, I’ve had enough of you."

  I’d never seen anyone talk to Mom that way, and I snapped.

  "Hey!" I heard myself say, and by say, I mean, it came darn close to a yell. My face burned with anger and embarrassment.

  I looked around the restaurant hoping to discover that not many people were looking, but of course, everyone was looking. With my luck people were peering in with telescopes to stare at me make making a fool of myself. Even Mom was shocked. My body shook in the inside with tension. What was I going to say? This man was yelling at my mother. I needed to do something and say something. But the longer I waited the dumber I felt, and the more I wanted to hide.

  "You shouldn’t," I squeaked out, my voice shaking as much as my insides.

  This next part is major embarrassing. In the midst of my attempt to learn to be a grown-up and handle conflict like an adult, I burst into tears like a giant baby.

  Yup. No more hiding for me. Just straight up humiliation right out in the open in clear sight of the whole town.

  To my surprise, crying in public, even when done in such an embarrassing way by a grown woman, engenders sympathy in a diner of a small town. People shamed Al for being so angry, and their comments chastened him. The attention called to my crying flooded me with more embarrassment, which in turn made it harder for me to stop crying, but after a few minutes of tissues, diet sodas, and french fries, my tears stopped.

  Al sat down next to me in the booth.

  "It's okay. I'm sorry," he said giving me an awkward pat on the head. You know how they say misery loves company? Well, awkwardness does too, or at least my awkwardness did.

  "She knows you didn't mean it," Mom said to Al. "She's just sensitive. She was hoping we would settle things today."

  "I don't know exactly how that's going to happen," he said.

  "Does this have anything to do with the mayoral race?" Mom asked.

  "Now that Brent's dead, you're probably a shoo-in," Al said.

  "She would beat him even if he were alive, but she doesn't want to be mayor," Wenling said.

  "You don't?" Al said.

  "Who told you I wanted to be mayor?" Mom asked.

  "Brent," he said.

  "Why would it bother you if she was mayor? She'd be a good mayor," Wenling said.

  Most of the diners nodded in agreement. I hadn't realized everyone was still paying attention to us. I gobbled down some more fries to keep my weirdness at bay.

  "Because you and her are best friends, and you wouldn't want Main Street extended for a few more shops including the new coffee house."

  "A coffeehouse!" Wenling said. "That's a good idea. Maybe put it by the bookstore across the street. Get the young people to come from the college."

  "That was my idea," Al said.

  "Maybe you should be mayor," Mom said.

  "Even if it competes with your restaurant?" Al asked.

  "We don't serve the fancy coffees. Just green tea and stuff from a can," Wenling said. "It would compete with your diner more than my Chinese restaurant."

  "People want those fancy coffees, and since I’d make money from both, I figured it would work out," Al said.

  "I want the one with the chocolate and coffee. What-you-call-it?" Wenling asked.

  "Mocha," Mom said.

  "Yeah, mocha," Wenling said.

  "I was thinking we could put in a bike rack so the kids from the college could ride here, or maybe ev
en get our trolley bus to add a stop near the college," Al said.

  "You have my vote," Mom said.

  And with that conversation things between Al and Mom were settled. The lunch rush ended, and Mom, Al, and Wenling’s conversation drifted into business talk until Al had to get back to work. Our food was even "on the house." As we left the diner and headed for the van, it struck me what Mom had discovered.

  "So if he really was mining for gold that’s how he planned to stop traffic to the park. With the construction right here at the end of Main Street," I said.

  Mom nodded.

  "That’s if he was really mining for gold," Wenling said with a smile.

  I didn’t like the look of her smile, and soon Mom had the same one.

  "What?" I asked getting into the van.

  "We need to go home and change into our hiking boots," Mom said.

  The list of things I liked to avoid in life should have included hiking.

  Howls and Hiking

  I grabbed the extra batteries out of the garage and headed back into the kitchen. Moriarty turned his tail up at me and dashed over to Mom. That cat had zero regard for me.

  Wenling and Mom had outfitted themselves in all black clothes. Mom didn't have a lot of black clothes. Her wardrobe was made up of bright colors. So Mom wore her only black sweater over her another shirt, and Wenling borrowed an old sweatshirt of mine from thirty pounds and twenty years ago. It was still baggy on her.

  "Don’t you think it would be better to go in the daytime?" I asked.

  "This is a covert operation," Wenling said, as if that explained anything. On our other cases, Mom's best friend suspected that Mom hogged all the fun stuff for herself. This plan to hunt for a gold mine in the middle of the night thrilled her.

  She’d even said how "lucky" she was that her restaurant was closed so she could go on the mission. But first, she had to call Jennifer to say she wouldn't be coming home tonight. Wenling didn't let her daughter know she'd be crawling around a mountain in the middle of the night. Instead, her cover story to Jennifer was that she and Mom were having a "sleepover" and the family might as well stay overnight at one of the Disney hotels. "She didn’t suspect a thing," Wenling said when she hung up the phone.

  "Why does this have to be a covert operation, Mom?" I asked. "Don’t you think it’s dangerous to stumble around the mountain at night? What about coyotes and mountain lions?"

  "Maybe we should go by my house and get my gun," Wenling suggested.

  "What you going to do, shoot the mountain lion?" Mom asked.

  "I’m a good shot," Wenling said.

  "We don’t want to make too much noise," Mom said to avoid an argument.

  "Maybe my slingshot or nunchucks," Wenling suggested.

  Mom convinced Wenling her coterie of weapons wouldn’t be necessary, and I stopped bringing up possible danger. Wenling’s plans to protect us scared me more than a mountain lion.

  "Go time" was ten o’clock, which in Fletcher Canyon time was the dead of night. Most of the shops closed at six in the evening with an exception to the eateries that stayed open until eight most nights and nine on Fridays and Saturdays. Mom and Wenling took a nap in their clothes.

  I couldn't sleep so I went online to do a little research about divorce. My searching segued into cyber stalking my ex-husband. He’d been playing all the best gigs lately — gigs I’d helped him get months ago. From what I can tell from his Facebook page and his website, all of our hard work was paying off. He hadn’t taken down some of the photos of us together. A part of me wished it was a sign he still cared about me.

  But then I noticed all the photos that were still up of us showed zero indication I was Robert's wife. He'd always said he wanted to act "professionally" when he was at a gig, but looking back on it, it didn’t seem professional, it seemed cold.

  I scrolled through his Twitter feed looking for an old tweet where he mentioned me as his wife. I remembered that it was Valentine’s Day two years ago. We wrote a song together, it was one of those happy couple moments that made me think we had a future. A part of me hated that he tweeted about it. It seemed like every single thing we did had somehow turned into promotion for his career, but now sitting alone at my computer, I wanted to see it. That little crumb of acknowledgement.

  After ages of scrolling, I found it. A photo of him with his guitar and me holding a legal pad of paper with the lyrics positioned in just the right way to hide my double chin. He’d tweeted: Just wrote a love song with the love of my life, my wife." I teared up staring at the words, "the love of my life, my wife."

  I found myself taking a screenshot of the Tweet feeling a little pathetic that I wanted to save it, but thinking that when the bitterness faded, it might be nice to have.

  "Hey kid!" Mom said with a gentle knock on the open door to my room. She’d stood in the doorway without stepping into the room to give me my privacy. Mom had the unique ability to sense my moods. "It’s quarter of ten. Do you still want to go?"

  I knew Mom and Wenling would be so disappointed if I bummed myself out too much to continue with our gold mine hunting. They needed me to drive them, but they'd accept it if I didn't want to go. There’s nothing like not "having" to do something to make you discover you "want" to do it.

  I closed out the screen and shut down my computer. "Let’s find a goldmine."

  We parked behind The Lucky Dragon and walked along the alley to the end of the street. Mom didn’t want to risk anyone seeing our van. It was Fall, and the night was cold. The chill added to the aura of tingly excitement.

  Wenling giggled. "It’s fun to be sneaking around at night."

  "Yeah," I agreed.

  Mom nodded. We’d decided not to use our flashlights until we were away from the street. It was a full moon, which made it easier to see once my eyes adjusted to the dark.

  Main Street dead ended into dirt at the foot of the mountain. We watched our step as we walked along the path to ensure we didn't trip on any rocks. I looked down at my father’s old hiking boots on my feet. Having never been much of an outdoor person, I didn’t own a pair. Even when my family would go hiking on the weekends as a kid, I was allowed to read a book and wait for them at The Lucky Dragon.

  My father’s old boots were way too big for me, and Mom had packed the front of the shoes with newspaper so I could walk. I felt like a little kid, feeling my toes scrunch against the paper with each step. Wenling and Mom both had the same size foot, so Wenling had borrowed an old pair from Mom.

  We passed the four picnic tables at the foot of the mountain. Just beyond the picnic tables was a trail that led upwards. Mom turned on her flashlight and led the way.

  "Be careful Mom," I said as I followed behind her and Wenling.

  It’s not far," she called back to me as she veered left off the trail.

  "Where are you going?" I asked. "The trail goes this way."

  Wenling turned to me. "That’s the new trail. We have to go to the old trail. That’s where the dried up river is."

  "How can we be sure that he didn’t find the gold on the new trail?" I asked, feeling less than excited about veering off the beaten path so quickly. Let’s just say I was no Robert Frost.

  "If it was on the new trail, everyone would have been talking about the gold ages ago," Wenling said.

  "But if it’s on the old trail," I asked, "why didn't they find the gold a long time ago?"

  "They did find gold up here a long time ago," Mom said. "But it was up way higher. Then they passed a law saying you can't mine up here anymore. So people stopped. They must’ve missed some."

  Mom and Wenling continued to hike up the mountain. I struggled to keep up. I told myself it wasn't because I was out of shape, it was because their shoes fit better than mine.

  The mountain grew steeper, and the conversation dwindled as we focused on climbing. After a half hour or so, we paused to take a sip of water and remove our sweaters. It occurred to me why they call them sweaters, because mine was drippin
g in perspiration.

  "Are we there yet?" I asked Mom.

  "Almost," she said, like she and Dad used to say while we were driving to my grandparents' house.

  The howl of a coyote jolted me out of memory lane. "Oh no!" I whispered, whipping my flashlight around to find where the snarling beast hid.

  Mom laughed. "That coyote is at least three kilometers away." Wenling nodded in agreement.

  "Mom you’ve lived in the Unites States for forty years. Why are you still using metric?"

  "Just under two miles," Wenling said.

  "How can you be sure?" I asked, searching with the flashlight. "Maybe he’s howling for some friends right around the corner from here."

  Another howl. "See," Mom said. "There’s his friend. Even further away."

  It did sound further away, but when did Mom and Wenling learn how to detect the distance of a coyote from the howl?

  "Let’s hurry up and find this gold mine," I said. "And by the way, what does a gold mine look like?"

  Wenling’s face had a puzzled look. "What does a gold mine look like?"

  Mom shook her head. "It won’t be a gold mine. He probably just did some digging and found the nuggets. We’re looking for signs of camping. Maybe some hidden pans, shovels, and other equipment. He wouldn't want to have to carry everything up each trip.

  Mom started up the thin path again. I hadn’t seen it originally because it was overgrown. We climbed more. My ankles ached, and the beginnings of a blister blossomed on my big toe. The longer we climbed, the more I felt like this venture seemed ill conceived. "I don’t know if we should keep going much further. I think doing this in the daytime would be better."

  "But then we risk his partner finding us," Mom said.

  "He might kill us, too," Wenling said.

  Then, I heard myself say something I didn’t really mean. I was more tired than anything else. "Then, we'll have Wenling bring her gun."

  Wenling brightened at the prospect. Mom stopped climbing. For a moment, I wondered if I'd won the argument.

  "We’re here," Mom said, scanning the area with her flashlight. "See the riverbed," Mom said.