Bobby's Diner

by Wingate, Susan

  The thought of changing her name back to her maiden name crossed her mind but it was fleeting. Her timing needed to be just right. Doing that too soon would make eyebrows raise and people whisper. She needed to give herself some room to make that change, room. She was unsure the proper amount of time to do something of this nature and, so, she decided she’d have to refer to an etiquette manual—but wondered, “do they address such things?”

  She looked back down to the bag, a hairbrush, cologne, Preparation H. She huffed in amusement when she pulled it out. Helen walked into the bathroom for the waste bucket and returned and loaded it with

  Harold’s toilette items. She then walked back and put the bucket back in its place by the toilet. She looked at herself in the mirror and checked her teeth, opened the medicine cabinet, pulled out her toothbrush, filled it with a striped paste and began brushing. She stared blankly into the mirror, spat, and rinsed, then pulled her hair back in a clip and washed her face. She wiped off the mirror which had retained speckles of toothpaste from her rigorous brushing, wiped down the sink, and noticed how perfectly fresh the house smelled sans Harold. Even though Harold was a prig he still passed gas like a lumberjack. Something Helen had grown to despise over the years. The lavender cleaner she used for the bathroom scented the air and she breathed it in deeply.

  She re-zipped his luggage and put it back into the darkest corner of the closet and was about to turn off the light and close the door when she decided to take the piece of luggage back out and store it in the garage where it would take up less space. She decided she would put it on a high shelf inside one of the storage bins where Harold kept his fishing gear.

  She lugged the piece out of the bedroom through the hall through the kitchen through the laundry room and out into the garage. She flicked on the light switch and saw only her car. She had insisted on something nice this time, she didn’t want to buy used, she wanted a new car and had to fight Harold to get it. Her last winning pitch was the argument that a mayor’s wife should reflect his success. Harold allowed her to buy the Land Rover four years back.

  Helen smiled. She’d fought and won. Then, she thought how many times she could’ve won if she’d only been stronger, fought harder and then she thought how many things she’d wanted and hadn’t fought for at all.

  Her smile dissipated and she moved through the door toward the storage bin and placed the piece of paisley luggage on the floor to get a step ladder.

  After unlocking the bin, she opened and angled the ladder into place, picked up the empty bag and carried it up the stairs arm-down. She hoisted the bag up onto her shoulder and again up to the top shelf inside the bin and slid it back, but, it stopped short not allowing enough room to close the doors. It hung over the edge a good three inches she suspected.

  She pulled the bag out and held it in her hand. A good twelve inches shorter than the uppermost top of the cabinet, Helen popped up onto her toes and moved her hand to feel around to feel for whatever had blocked Harold’s bag. She blindly patted until she felt something she could make out as a thin flat item.

  Pulling the thing forward, she inched it forward with the tips of her fingertips until she finally got it to a point where she could slide it out far enough onto the ledge to lift it by pinching it between her index finger and thumb.

  As she pulled it closer to her head, she saw it was a black attaché with the insignia CII.

  She pulled it off and then replaced the luggage she’d been holding, into its spot. It fit nicely now.

  When she got down from the ladder she closed and locked the bin once again. And, walked back into her house looking at the latched attaché she’d found.

  ***

  Vanessa and I drove to Helen’s together. When we got there we were all sad smiles and baked goods. I brought a pie and Van brought lasagna, we both brought sympathy cards and wanted to sit with her and console her the best we knew how. But, Helen was beyond consoling. She was beyond everything. She seemed distant and cold. This woman who had once been our friend now treated us like her and Harold’s constituency, mere voters. She said, standing in the doorway, she didn’t have a lot of time that day, she had to organize the memorial service, answer a few phone calls and although she said that she “appreciated the gesture,” she said that the day was running short and she’d have to ask us over again on another day, soon. We took it that she was grieving differently than how we might have expected and when she closed the door, we turned and stared at each other briefly and walked back to the car and left.

  ***

  After the initial jolt of finding Harold’s incriminating documents, Helen was enraged. Her name would be mud around Sunnydale, she’d be the laughing stalk of the community along with Harold, but with Harold he could hide deep in the confines deep inside the earth. She’d have to bear his misconduct the underhandedness of his ambition the ensuing damage upon people and property, the lies, deceit, and crime involved. She’d feel the brunt of his burden. By then it was late in the afternoon and as the sun began its decline in the western sky she’d settled into her fourth scotch and kept the bottle close at hand for her fifth and possibly sixth if she could withstand the imminent delirium brought about by the alcohol. She’d not have her name slandered. She’d refuse the attack from media attention. She’d not come forth until the police forced her hand if that at all was to be. This was Harold’s doing not hers and she’d act as surprised at their findings as they would be.

  Helen stumbled out to the back patio by the fire pit with the documents in hand. She teetered to a stack of logs and found kindling and layered it on the bottom of the pit’s screen then added one single mesquite log to burn. She ignited the kindling after spritzing it with lighter fluid kept with the built-in barbecue. The building glow of the burning wood felt too hot in the warm evening air and she stepped back to the table under the umbrella where she’d left her drink and the guilty documents—contracts between Chariot International Incorporated all signed by a Zach Pinzer. Why hadn’t she ever heard of this man before? But, she knew all too well the answer to her question, her questions. She wondered why he’d had such a sudden increase of generosity, the jewelry and gifts—guilt gifts, blood money—all of it. The log had become fully engulfed in fire and popped into submission. Bits of hot ash were spit from it as all its life was being burnt out. She pulled off the top page of the first document from the attaché and crumpled it into a ball in her fist. She walked slowly and deliberately toward the burning pit. Her future was now on the line. She wondered if she could flee before the fall of the axe, run, hide. Helen thought of Seattle where no one knew her. Could she hide from the widespreading arms of the media? She turned back to the table and walked over quickly and grabbed her drink and slugged back the sharp tonic, wiped her lips with her arm and coughed bitterly. She turned now, stronger than before with her sweaty palm still tightly gripping the crumpled paper and walked steadily this time back to the fire.

  CHAPTER 30

  It was late in the evening just after the last party had left the diner. I was locking the door when I noticed a darkened car sitting alone in the front parking lot of the restaurant. I quickly turned the lock to secure the door. That’s when a woman exited the vehicle and I realized who it was. After unbolting the lock I opened the door for her.

  “Helen. What are you doing here? I didn’t recognize your car.”

  “Is Vanessa here?”

  “Yes. What’s goin’ on?” I opened the door for her to enter and she walked in.

  “I need to talk to the both of you.”

  “Oh, Helen, about the other night. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t give it a second thought. Now, go get Vanessa, okay?”

  She seemed firmer than the Helen I knew from before.

  Of course, her husband had just died and she was still in mourning. I went to the office where Vanessa was doing the books.

  “Van?”

  “Mm hmm.”

  “Helen’s here.” Van looked up
when I spoke and pulled her readers from the bridge of her nose and let them drop from the chain that held them around her neck.

  “What’s she want?”

  “I don’t know but she said she needs to speak with the both of us.”

  “Would you like a glass of wine Helen?”

  “I think I’d better not. Not until after I’ve said what I have to say to you.”

  “Okay, shoot, Helen.” Vanessa seemed overly curt to me. She hadn’t liked the way Helen had treated us when we tried to visit her.

  We both slid into the booth opposite her. She looked out the window and was holding a hanky in her hands and she was twining it over and over again. She rubbed just under her nose with a finger and I could see her hands were shaking.

  “What’s going on, Helen? You seem upset.” Vanessa must have seen her shaking too.

  “Well, Vanessa, I am upset. I don’t know where to begin.” We both looked on without saying anything and she started to unfold in front of us. “Oh god , what am I going to do?”

  “Helen, how can we help if you don’t tell us what’s eatin’ you?” She looked squarely into my eyes and spoke very methodically like she’d practiced it over and over in the mirror.

  “I don’t think Harold’s accident was an accident at all. I think something underhanded was at play. I also think Harold had something to do with the vandalism down the strip and here and the shooting.” She sucked in a pocket of air and held her hands to her mouth.

  Vanessa leaned forward upon Helen’s confession.

  “You think it was Harold?”

  Helen shook her head and then spoke, “No, not

  Harold. Someone he was involved with?”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not willing to say at this point, Vanessa, ’cause

  I’m not sure.”

  “My daughter almost died and you’re not willing to say?” I sank back into the corner of the booth when I felt Vanessa’s rage and Helen leaned against the back of

  hers.

  “You don’t understand. I’m not sure how Harold was involved I just have a stinking sensation he was in deep, and completely out of his element.”

  “Helen, I have a question.” Vanessa leaned back and let me talk. “What’s led you to believe Harold was involved?”

  “See, that’s just it, Georgette. I was going through his things and by chance happened onto some documents, contracts. He’d hidden them on the top shelf of a storage cabinet in our garage. Well, these documents were all concerning land and businesses and buildings and such

  here, around Sunnydale. I know, for a fact, Harold had other business interests, he told me so. He just didn’t say what they were. And, honestly, when he brought home the deposit slip from his first commission check and it was over fifty thousand dollars, I was thrilled. I didn’t realize it came from a shady deal.”

  “Where are these documents?” Vanessa was trying to contain her fury.

  “They’re still at the house. I thought, maybe we could go over them together, the three of us. I’m not very business-minded and really need to know what you both think about them. Would you want to come over to my place? Tonight?”

  ***

  The living room had papers all over the floor— contracts, credit card statements and corresponding receipts, pay stubs, deposit slips, and phone logs, all strewn across the floor albeit in an orderly fashion— we all stood looking in from under the archway leading to the dining room.

  “It’s all there, all that I could find at the house, that is.

  Who knows if there’s more at his office. I haven’t been by to pick up his things yet, they’re letting me grieve.” She rolled her eyes. “I was hoping you both could take a look at everything. I’ve organized all of it in date order.

  It seemed the most logical thing to do. The contract lingo has me a little befuddled though. Would you mind?” Vanessa and I entered the room like we had just found the Holy Grail, slowly, methodically, stepping over items carefully, staring at the volume of it all.

  “I’ll make some tea. Would tea be okay?”

  Bold, brave Vanessa chimed in. “Honey, this is gonna take something stronger than tea.”

  Without a second thought, “Scotch it is.” Helen had it close at hand. In the kitchen we could hear ice drop into a tumbler, then another, then another and the gurgling sound of liquid coming out of the bottle, the bottom of each glass set back onto the counter and then Helen’s footsteps back toward us. By the time she returned, we were on the living room floor kneeling and reading the documents situated furthest to the left of the room. Like a book we were reading a history of meetings and monies exchanged for services provided by the mayor to Chariot International Incorporated and all signed by Harold Pyle and a Zach Pinzer.

  Vanessa reached for a glass with her gaze pasted onto the documents. I watched her as she read aloud.

  “‘Pursuant to this agreement, the aforementioned Purchaser upon title exchanged for said Land will remit to the Intermediary Party a commission in the amount of $51,323.43’—Jesus, that’s a bunch of money. The land is the property just behind the diner, the town of Sunnydale has been keeping that land preserved I thought. This doesn’t seem right. I don’t know how Harold could’ve pulled this off without an uproar from the people here.”

  “You see that’s just it, Van. I remember him telling me it was all talk. Harold never really did anything about preserving the land because no one around here seemed to care too much one way or the other. He thought he could rally people for a preservation trust but the idea sank before it even got started. Other things came up—bigger issues that people cared more about— school levies, sales tax increases, water issues. So, he dropped the ball. It’s been town land from day one with no easements on it, no preservation classification. People assumed he’d followed through because he talked about it so often, but he hadn’t. It was just town land sitting there, held in investment. But, what I don’t get is how he could sell it without causing a stir. It must have been real hush-hush even to the people around him.

  “You’ll see he was traveling a lot. Every time he went down to Phoenix he took with him a contract to be signed and every time he returned he brought back a commission check. I have this gut feeling this Pinzer guy was somehow involved in the attacks on the businesses in your strip. I can’t imagine Harold would allow violence. But, I guess I really didn’t know him very well, did I?” She took a long thoughtful swallow from her glass and dabbed at her upper lip daintily to catch a drip of scotch left there. Helen stopped talking now. We were letting her words sink in. I looked at Van and then back down at all the documents.

  Four hours later, around two that morning, we had a plan. We’d go to the authorities and explain what Helen had found. We’d tell them together—stand together— because Helen had a huge stake in this and Vanessa and I weren’t going to let her go down alone for this if our suspicions were right that Harold was somehow behind the whole thing. After going back and forth on the particulars several times, we finally agreed to meet at Helen’s house the following morning at nine and drive down together.

  ***

  I’d spent the morning with Gangster going over my lines, my part in the discussion. I kept repeating the facts as I knew them to be from my perspective. And, what Helen had told us sure seemed a viable reason for the brief crime spree felt by our little community.

  But, when I got to Helen’s the next morning like we’d planned she wasn’t there. The door was locked the house was dark. I rang the doorbell checked the backyard—nothing. The garage was closed and when I looked into a window to see if her car was there it was empty—no car either. I began to panic but then remembered Vanessa would be here shortly too and to hold off making any assumptions about Helen’s whereabouts.

  After thirty minutes I started to worry again, so I left a note for Vanessa on Helen’s front door:

  I went home. Come meet me when you get this note. Where’s Helen?

  I got t
o my phone and immediately called Vanessa’s house. Roberta answered the phone.

  “Carlisle residence.”

  “Hi, honey. It’s me. Is your mother there?”

  “I thought she was meeting you and Helen?”

  “Well, she didn’t. I waited at Helen’s a good thirty minutes. I’m a little frazzled, Roberta. Helen wasn’t there either.”

  “Weren’t you all supposed to meet at the police station? At least, I think that’s where she said she was going? What’s going on, anyway?”

  “Oh, shit! I screwed up. I thought we were all supposed to meet at Helen’s. Oh, thanks, Roberta. I spaced that one small little detail.” My voice was strained but managed to have a sarcastic quality as well. “Jeez, Georgie. I’m the one with amnesia but I remembered that!”

  “Yeah, thanks. Gotta go. Talk to you later, honey. Bye.” I’d successfully avoided telling Roberta what was happening hopefully without offending her and raced well over the speed limit to the police station. Helen and Vanessa were waiting for me outside.

  ***

  “I never would’ve guessed, Helen.” Vanessa was only learning the depth of Helen and only before her possible move away from here.

  “She carries a journal around with her, Van.”

  “It’s no big thing. I’ve only had one poem win anything at all. But, you’re right, it’s kind of exciting to see your work in print.” Helen beamed through tired eyes. We all drove over to the diner for a bite. It was Monday and we didn’t have to work. So, we sat with the lights off in the bright sunlit room and made some sandwiches. We were all drinking ice tea, the caffeine boost was needed from the previous late night.

  “Well, I think we did the right thing. The police will let us know their progress and hopefully we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  “I’ve been praying it turns out Harold isn’t involved, but those documents look pretty damning.”