Diners, Dives, and Dirty Deeds

by David F. Berens

  I immediately passed a speed limit sign that said 35 and began to second-guess my escape route. The Blue Ridge Parkway is double-yellow line the whole way, single lane each direction, and no shoulder at all, so there is zero room to pass.

  At first, the road was only slightly curvy and I made good time, but I passed two cars coming the opposite way, so I knew this wouldn’t last. Sure enough, I came upon a car in front of me and had to slow way down. I had put a lot of distance between Ricky and me, but within seconds, I saw him coming back up in my rear view mirror.

  “Hang on again,” I said, and I pulled out to pass.

  The guy in front of me honked his horn and sped up. I floored it and pulled back over in front of him halfway around a turn that would not have gone well if anyone had been coming the other way.

  I put some more distance behind me and made another illegal pass, but at least on this one I could see far enough ahead to know I could make it.

  A hairpin turn to the left surprised me, and I could feel my car skidding sideways. I barely regained control in time for another hairpin turn to the right, crossing way over into the oncoming lane. Alison yelled at me to slow down and turn on my lights. That seemed prudent.

  A pair of headlights shone in my mirror, and they were getting brighter. I slowed for a sharp left turn, and I saw Ricky in my mirror cross over the center line and make up more distance. Eventually, he caught up to me again and tried to force me off the road. I saw a sign for a scenic overlook and held on for that. I cut right at the overlook and jumped on the brakes.

  Ricky missed the turnoff but skidded and bounced over the low stone divider that separated the pull-off from the main road. His door flew open, and he jumped out with a pistol in his hand.

  I reached for the pistol that I had stuffed between the seat and the console, but it wasn’t there. It probably flew out while I was playing Jeff Gordon. Ricky ran to my car with his pistol pointing at the windshield. I opened my door and rolled out, but he grabbed the passenger door handle and leveled his gun at Alison.

  He pulled her out of the car harder than he needed to, and I jumped up screaming, “What the hell are you doing, you idiot!”

  “I want that emerald!” Ricky shouted back.

  He still had Alison by her right arm. She was twisting around and trying to push away from him.

  “Well you’re not going to get the emerald from her,” I continued to shout. “I have it right here!”

  I pulled the emerald out of my pocket and held it up in the air. Then I twisted away and started running.

  I heard a gunshot, and I went down. I jumped back up yelling,

  “You asshole! Here’s your fucking emerald!” and I fired it at Ricky’s head as hard as I could.

  Ricky ducked, and Alison yanked her arm free. She wound up her whole body and gave him a straight-legged kick in the crotch so hard that he went down like he’d been shot. I watched him struggle and pull his shoulders up to the wooden rail to see the end of the stone’s flight several hundred feet down over the hill.

  11

  Brunswick Stew Too

  Alison and I have spent a lot of time together this past month talking with the state police and the FBI about the kidnapping and everything else that happened that week in the mountains. We had to retrace our steps through the entire process, showing them where we spent the night under the tree—the nest I made was still there—and where Ricky had kept Alison tied up overnight. That part was especially creepy to me.

  I also had to show them where we broke into Ricky’s house—illegal—where I sawed a whole chunk out of Ezra and his partner’s house—really illegal—but given the situation, we were not charged with any crimes.

  I had truly intended to keep my word about not telling anybody about the kidnapping, but all that went out the door when Ricky came after us on the Blue Ridge Parkway.

  That night, as soon as we had left the overlook parking lot, we passed a National Park Service car, complete with flashing lights and siren. They found Ricky with his gun, and apparently Ezra started spilling his guts, separating himself from Ricky, and they were both taken into custody. Ezra made bail and has managed to keep his restaurant open so far, but the future of that looks pretty gloomy. The FBI told us that Ezra was using his restaurant to launder money from stolen jewelry and pot sales. The restaurant probably couldn’t stand on its own much longer, even if Ezra stayed out of prison, which wasn’t likely.

  But his restaurant was still officially open for now, so Alison included it in her article, which was scheduled for publication next month. As a bonus, she was so impressed with Ezra’s sandwiches that she wrote an additional article on how to spice up traditional sandwiches. She was as proud of it as she was her assigned article, and she was shopping this bonus article around to several food magazines.

  Now she was cooking me dinner. We’ve had a lot of conversations lately about what constitutes good food and how her grandma used to cook with only the freshest whole foods. She was determined to educate my palate. Today’s lesson was Brunswick stew. Good luck with that.

  When I got to her apartment early this afternoon, she already had a big pot of meat stewing, and her place smelled terrific. I asked her what made her Brunswick stew any better than the others I’ve had, and she told me she’d tell me after I tasted it.

  So we watched a movie and just relaxed together for a couple hours. She went back to work on her stew, taking out the meat that had been slow-cooking. She pulled all of it off the bone and returned it to the pot. She had me cut up some vegetables and throw those in. She cooked some onions and garlic separately before adding those. Some more ingredients went in, she stirred and covered it, and pushed me out of the kitchen.

  We started talking about cars because hers had been acting up again.

  “I need something I can depend on,” she said. “I want to be able to count on my car to get me places. Is that too much to ask? I want people I can depend on, too. I really liked Ezra. He seemed like such a nice guy. And he’s a really good cook. He truly cared about his food and his customers.”

  “I think your car is fine,” I said. “Hondas are very reliable. Yours just has a lot of miles on it, and some of the parts are going to wear out and need replaced. As for Ezra, I guess he does seem like a nice guy for the most part. He just has a major character flaw. A lot of people are like that.”

  “But his character flaw almost got us killed.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “I’m certainly not trying to defend him. But he’s not a violent person. That’s why he was a fence instead of a thief. And why he ran away when Ricky took my emerald. He couldn’t deal with that in person.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry about your emerald. I was trying not to bring that up. If the parts are wearing out on my car, then how can you say that’s reliable?”

  I stood up and shook my head.

  “How do you do that? I have to have one conversation at a time. Do you want to talk about your car, or do you want to talk about Ezra?”

  “I’m trying to talk about my life! I feel like I’m barely holding on sometimes. My car wouldn’t start outside the Soda Shop, and because of that, I almost lost out on a paying job. Then you came along—and yeah, you’re reliable—you’re super-reliable and mister all-pulled-together—but if it weren’t for you … I don’t know.”

  She threw her arms out and sunk down into the couch in defeat.

  I sat back down and put my hand on her leg. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m trying to make it on my own, and I’m not doing a very good job of it. I can barely make enough money to pay my rent. I’m dependent on my car, but I can’t count on it starting when I need it. I have to depend on people, and some people aren’t who they appear to be. Some people are outright dangerous.”

  I smiled. “It’s a good thing to be dependent on people. We’re all dependent on people. That’s how society works. And most people are good. There aren’t that many dangerous ones. You just happened to run into
two of them recently. You probably won’t find another one now for years.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Yes. And if you do, I’ll protect you.”

  She grabbed my arm and smiled. “You probably would.”

  Alison declared her Brunswick stew ready and brought it to the table in bowls. She also brought us each a plate with cornbread.

  “Where are your famous dumplings?” I asked.

  “I was going to put them in, but I wanted you to appreciate the true Brunswick stew experience before I started changing it around. This is the traditional way to serve it, with cornbread.”

  I tried a spoonful, and it was surprisingly good. I didn’t show any emotion. I tried another bite, and said to Alison, “This isn’t Brunswick stew. This tastes totally different”

  “Sure it is. Do you like it?”

  “Yeah, it’s great!”

  “That’s Brunswick stew.”

  “Then why is it so different from any other Brunswick stew I’ve had.”

  “Because the other one’s you’ve had just weren’t good. They probably used canned vegetables, and they didn’t season it right.”

  “So what makes yours so different?”

  “I use fresh ingredients. That’s important. Vegetables and herbs. Do you remember what Ezra said about how he used so many fresh herbs?”

  “Ezra used fresh pot.”

  “Yeah, he did, but he used a lot more than just that. You remember how much you liked his sandwiches? That’s because he used fresh herbs.”

  “Those were good sandwiches,” I said.

  “I also leave out the lima beans. Brunswick stew is supposed to have lima beans, but I think they make everything taste bitter.”

  “Well you really know what you’re doing,” I said through a full mouth. “This really is good. And so is your cornbread.”

  I immersed myself in the taste some more. This was a new experience for me. I usually don’t make a big deal about food.

  “You should write a cookbook. Call it Cooking like Grandma or something.” Do you have your grandma’s old recipes?”

  “Actually, I do. My mom gave me her recipe book when they cleaned out her place. But there are already thousands of cookbooks out there.”

  “But you can explain things. Like you just explained this. Any cookbook I’ve ever seen is just a bunch of recipes. And pictures. Good pictures are absolutely necessary for a cookbook. But they’re still just a collection of recipes. Write a book that explains how to cook: what differences fresh ingredients make, things like that. I’m not describing this very well, but you know what I mean, don’t you?”

  “I think so. I don’t think I could write one though.

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t do that kind of thing—”

  “You’re a writer! How can you not be able to do it?”

  “It just seems like a big deal to write a cookbook and then to get it published.”

  “Tell me something that your grandma told you about cooking that you used in this meal right here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did your grandma ever tell you anything that you remembered today when you were cooking this meal?”

  “Don’t let the meat cook too long.”

  “So why don’t you want the meat to cook too long?”

  “Because it loses flavor. Most people think you should cook it until it falls off the bone, but meat breaks down as you cook it, that’s what releases the flavor. If you let it go until it falls off the bone, you’ve lost some of the flavor.”

  “That’s perfect. Write it down and put it with this recipe. And every time you think of anything else your grandma told you about cooking, write that down with that recipe. I’ll bet pretty soon you’ll have enough to start putting these things into categories. And that’s the framework for a book.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Think about it. If there was a book out there that explained everything that your grandma taught you about cooking, do you think that would be useful to people?”

  “Yeah. A lot.”

  “Well there you go. Now can I have some more cornbread?”

  After we finished, I got up and took our dishes to the sink. “Stay there,” I told her. “I have something to show you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Hang on.” I walked over to the front door, where I had dropped my bag. I brought it over to the table and pulled three cups and a ball out of it while I sat back down across from her.

  “Really?” she said, clearly unimpressed with the magic she was about to be captivated by.

  I gave her my best hurt puppy dog look.

  “You need a new trick,” she said. “You’ve already shown me this one.”

  “You’ve never seen it when I was prepared. You saw it in a restaurant.”

  These three cups were big and heavy and made a lot of noise when I put them down and slid them around.

  I showed her a ball and placed it underneath one of the cups. I slid them around, making a great show of waving my hands and arms around in the process. “Which one?”

  Alison gave me a resigned smile and pointed to the one on my right. “That one.”

  I lifted the cup to reveal the ball. “Very good! Watch again.”

  I did my thing again, this time just a little bit faster.

  She pointed at the middle cup.

  “Right again,” I said, lifting the cup with great flourish.

  I replaced the cup and switched them around some more. I paused and did it again. I paused and did it a third time. With all of these, I tried my best to confuse her, which is a lot more difficult with big cups.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “I think it’s this one,” she pointed to the one on my right again, “but if not, then it’s this one.” She pointed to the one on my left.

  I sat back and said, “Pick one.”

  “Left,” she said. “I mean my left, your right,” she quickly clarified, pointing to the cup.

  I waved my fingers all around it for too long.

  “C’mon.”

  I quickly picked up the cup to show that it was empty.

  “Ohhh. That one, then,” she said, pointing to the cup on my left.

  “Pick it up,” I said.

  She did, and she dropped the cup. She shrieked higher than I think I have ever heard a shriek before.

  I beamed in pride. I was probably blushing. Alison turned pale.

  She looked at me with her mouth hanging open. “H-how?”

  “You didn’t really think I’d throw away a perfectly good emerald, did you?”

  “You jerk!”

  “Huh? What?”

  “You kept this secret from me all this time—a whole month!”

  She picked up the emerald and studied it under the light. “I watched you throw this over the cliff. How’d you do this?”

  “A true magician never reveals his secrets.”

  “Don’t you true magician me! How did you do this?”

  I grinned at her impatience.

  “When I ran away from you at the overlook, I was running to the edge of the road where I knew there’d be some loose rocks. I just made a switch. I practice it all the time, so neither you nor Ricky saw what I did. Instead, you saw exactly what your brain expected to see—the emerald sailing over the cliff.”

  “You could have gotten killed!”

  “Yeah, I wasn’t counting on him shooting at me like that. Lucky for me he’s not a good shot.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “In case they got away. In case the FBI tried to take it away from me for evidence. I wanted everybody to think it was long gone. Sorry, but you too. The more that you believed it, the more convinced everybody else would be.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “It’s mine. This is a big part of the reason I got a lawyer to represent us when we talked with the police and FBI. He’s checked with the FBI and a
ssured me that I get to keep it.”

  “So what will you do with it?”

  “Sell it. I’ve already verified that it really is an emerald. I’m still researching the best way to sell it, but I think I’ve found the best auction. It’ll take a few months.”

  Alison set the emerald down on the table. “I still can’t believe it.”

  “There’s another reason I wanted you to think I threw it over the hill.”

  “What’s that?”

  “On the way home, remember what I said when you asked me why I threw the emerald at Ricky?”

  Alison smiled. “You said that I was worth more than a million dollars to you.”

  “And then what did you say?”

  “I love you.”

  Alison walked over to me and gave me a kiss. “You’re still a jerk.”

  Afterword

  Did you like the bear that showed up in Diners, Dives, and Dirty Deeds? If so, then I have two things for you:

  First, It would make me very happy if you would leave me a review on Amazon (and it also gives other potential readers a reason to give my book a shot).

  Second, I have another bear!

  Jack and Alison are off to Glacier National Park in their next adventure, and it’s all fun and games until somebody goes and gets killed, which kinda happens right away. But don’t worry—it’s not Jack or Alison.

  (At least I don’t think it was …)

  The Bureau of Indian Affairs is on the case, along with the National Park Police. But Jack is too impatient for them and decides to go after the killers himself. That’s bad decision #1. And then there’s the bear ….

  Jack and Alison’s 2nd Thriller: Goats, Boats, and Killer Cutthroats awaits. Be sure to sign up for the Jack & Alison Reader Group for updates on releases and upcoming promotions! And be sure to check out a preview on the next page.

  Also by David Berens

  And don’t forget to check out all of the Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series on Amazon: