2 Last Diner Standing

by Terri L. Austin

  I raised a brow. “Oh, really?”

  “Fine, not technically.”

  I wasn’t sure what that meant, but before I could question her further, Ma suddenly popped up. “What?” She whipped her head around and spied us. “What happened?”

  “You took a snooze, Ma,” I said.

  She sniffed and rubbed her tired eyes beneath her frames. “I don’t have time to snooze. I’ve got chicken and rice to get in the oven.” She slid off her stool and slowly made her way to the kitchen.

  “I’m worried about her,” Roxy said.

  “Me, too. She’s not going to be able to keep up this crazy pace.”

  Roxy smacked her gum. “She won’t listen to us. Rudy’s going to have to call off this breakfast crap first.”

  After I rousted Dillon from the office, Roxy and I plucked the chairs from the tables. By the time we flipped the open sign, customers were lined up.

  We busted our humps serving breakfast and lunch, and by the end of my shift, I was tired and hungry. I didn’t even have time for my breakfast omelet.

  Jorge stepped out of the kitchen, tossed a dish towel over his shoulder. “Hey girls, I’m worried about Ma and this lunch thing. She was up all night and I don’t know how much longer she can keep up the pace.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m worried, too.”

  “She reminds me of my abuela,” he said. “Loud and feisty. She needs to slow down.”

  “But she’s so stubborn, and Rudy is such an ass, I don’t see either one of them giving in,” Roxy said. She plopped down on a chair and pulled her tips out of her pocket. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I’m going to have to pick up a second job or Ma’s going to have to quit giving away food.”

  Jorge patted her shoulder on his way to the kitchen.

  I whipped out my phone and glanced at my messages. One from my mother, one from Janelle, one from Jacks. I called Janelle first.

  “Rose, it’s not good news. Dane says they might arrest me for Chicken Licker’s murder any second. But I’m not guilty and I’m not taking a damn plea. I think I might head out of state tonight.”

  “Janelle, no. Please don’t do anything rash. After work I was going to question Brenda’s husband, Dave. Then I was going to hit some pawn shops, see if Marcus has been around.”

  “Why the pawn shops?” she asked.

  “Marcus steals cars, chops them. I think whatever he finds in the cars, he takes to pawn shops.”

  Frankly, I was desperate, but I didn’t want to tell her that. My theory was if Marcus had pawned something he stole, it might be enough to get him arrested, and then maybe the cops would start looking at someone besides Janelle for Crystal’s murder. After all, he was with her a couple days before she died. It was a pretty crappy theory, but it was all I had.

  “I’m going with you, Rose,” Janelle said. “This is my life, and I can’t leave everything to you.”

  “Please, just stay home with the kids.”

  “No, I have to do something,” she said. “I can’t sit around this house. I’m going crazy.” She and Sullivan had something in common.

  Then she began sobbing. Janelle was the toughest person I knew. To hear her cry like that ripped at me.

  “We’re going to find who did this, okay? I’ll pick you up after I get off work.”

  I hung up and found Roxy staring at me. “Things aren’t looking good for her, are they?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  Next, I called Jacks.

  “Hey, wanted to remind you about the cookie exchange Tuesday night,” she said.

  Crap. Every year, my sister and her friends got together, drank too much eggnog, bitched about their overworked doctor husbands, and tried to out-Martha each other in the cookie department. Me? I stopped at the Walmart bakery and bought thirteen dozen sugar cookies.

  “Jacks, with all that’s going on right now with Janelle, I’m not sure I can make it.”

  “Oh.” There was a lot of judgment and hurt in that little word.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to be there—”

  “No, I get it. It’s a stupid party. You’ve got more important things to do. Don’t worry about it.” Her pitch rose with each word.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “It’s fine. I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up.

  “Shit.”

  “What’s wrong?” Roxy asked.

  “Christmas sucks,” I said. “And I have to go to the cookie exchange party.”

  She curled her lip. “Gross.”

  I decided not to return my mother’s call. Between my sister and Janelle, I couldn’t add Barbara’s drama to the mix. Not today.

  Roxy and I scrambled to clean the diner and headed out at four. Before I left, I grabbed the yellow pages from under the counter. I needed the addresses for the pawn shops in town.

  We climbed into the Honda and I let it heat up. The day was cold and overcast. So far we’d only had the occasional flurry, but I had a feeling the real stuff was on the way.

  “Before we go to Janelle’s, I need to swing by Rudy’s,” I said.

  Roxy raised a brow. “What’s your plan? Going to have a shootout?”

  “I’m hoping for a cease fire.”

  I drove to Rudy’s and pulled around the back of the strip mall. I hopped out of the car, Roxy hot on my heels.

  “I hope this is a good idea,” she said.

  Me, too. I knocked on what I assumed was the kitchen door.

  A skinny guy in his late twenties opened it. “Who are you?”

  “Let me talk to one of your waitresses. I’m from Ma’s diner and I come in peace.” I held up Spock fingers. Thanks, Ax.

  “Hang on.” He shut the door in my face.

  A moment later, it opened again and a red-haired woman with bright orange lipstick stepped outside. She wore a blue Rudy’s uniform with a flared skirt and fringe on the sleeves. Thank God Ma let us wear what we wanted. Roxy would be stifled in a dress like this.

  “Who are you?” she asked. Her gaze trailed over Roxy’s purple dress and the layers of lacy petticoats.

  “I’m Rose, this is Roxy. We work at Ma’s Diner.”

  “I’m Sarah. What can I do for you?” She hiked a thumb over her shoulder. “I’ve got a full house, so make it quick.”

  “Do you like this breakfast situation?”

  She sighed. “No. I’ve got a kid in grade school and I have to drop him off at my mom’s at five-thirty every morning. I’m thinking about looking for a new job.”

  “How’s breakfast going? You guys breaking even?”

  She scoffed. “Are you joking? Rudy’s giving it away like the town whore. Free pancakes—which are cheap enough—but when people eat stacks and stacks of ’em, it adds up. And the fruit toppings are expensive, especially the blueberries.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, likewise with lunch. I suggest we pool our staff and have a little sit down with Ma and Rudy. You think if she backs off of lunch, he’ll give up breakfast?”

  She looked skeptical. “I don’t know. He’s a stubborn bastard.”

  “Yeah, Ma, too.”

  “Let me feel him out and I’ll call you.” We exchanged numbers and I climbed into the car.

  “Think it will work?” Roxy asked.

  “Hope so. Lunch is wearing Ma out.”

  She patted my head. “You’re such a little peacemaker.”

  Chapter 23

  Dave Hutchens worked at Watley’s, an upscale grocery store on the ritzy side of town. I never shopped here. Too expensive. Muzak played over the sound system—an upbeat version of O Little Town of Bethlehem.

  Roxy hummed along as she, Janelle, and I cut through the bakery aisle to the meat
department. I took in all the artisan breads. Smelled heavenly.

  The end caps were filled with Christmas baking supplies which reminded me that I needed to buy some sugar cookies. If I waited until the last minute, I’d be stuck taking off brand Oreos. Then Jacks would really be pissed.

  We stopped at the meat counter where two burly men in bloody smocks and latex gloves helped customers. I grabbed a number tab from the top of the counter. Lucky thirteen.

  “Who the hell can afford to shop here?” Janelle asked. “Look at that turkey. It’s all organic and skinny and shit. Looks more like a chicken than a turkey. Costs three times as much as a butterball.”

  Roxy groaned. “Please don’t mention chicken. I can’t take it.”

  We had a five minute wait, and when a man with frizzy hair and a mustache called our number, all three of us stepped forward.

  “We’re looking for Dave Hutchens,” I said.

  “He’s in the back. Can I help you with something?”

  “Nah, we need to talk to Dave. It’s important,” Janelle said.

  The man went behind the glass and spoke to one of the two men using cleavers to hack away at a hunk of beef. He put down his cleaver and wiped his bloodied hands on his apron.

  He frowned as he approached us. “What can I do for you?”

  Dave Hutchins was pleasant looking. Late forties, had most of his salt-and-pepper hair. Nothing to get worked up over, but not bad. No wonder Brenda fell for Sheik and his seductive moves.

  “We’d like to speak to you in private, if we could,” I said. “It’s about Brenda.”

  The frown deepened, causing lines to form across his forehead. “What about Brenda? Is she all right?”

  I glanced around at the customers waiting for service. The girls and I were quickly getting hemmed in by all the grocery carts. “We need some privacy.”

  “Come on.” He moved around the counter and led us through the store, through the employees only door, toward the loading dock. The doors were closed, but it was still cold.

  He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit up. “Not supposed to do this here, but what the hell, right?”

  Roxy closed her eyes and took in a lungful of secondhand smoke. “Mmmm.”

  I nudged her arm. “Focus.” Then I turned to Dave. “Mr. Hutchins, we’re looking into the attack on Sheik Johnson.”

  He frowned again. “That asshole slept with my wife.” He threw down the smoke and twisted his shoe over it. “What is this about? I thought you had a message from Brenda.”

  Janelle and I exchanged glances. “Not exactly,” she said. “Sheik’s my ex-husband.”

  Dave laughed without humor. “You have my sympathy.”

  “I guess you must have been pretty angry when you found out not only did Brenda have an affair with Sheik, but she gave him money, too.”

  He shifted from slightly tense to a defensive posture, stood straighter, hands fisted at his sides. “What the hell? What money?”

  Whoops. “Brenda loaned Sheik money. I guess you didn’t know.”

  He gazed a stack of wood pallets. “You’re telling me that everything we worked for, all the years of saving to retire a little early, and she just gives that fucker money?”

  “Must have sucked. Knowing Brenda gave her lover money and in return he gave her the clap,” Roxy said.

  I elbowed her in the side.

  “What?” she asked. “It’s all true.”

  Dave’s color became mottled. “Brenda and I have been married twenty years. Twenty goddamned years. And she pisses it all away. Says she’s in love with this new guy.” He turned to Janelle. “Your husband.”

  “Ex,” she said.

  Dave didn’t let her correction stop him. “Said she’s going to leave me for him.” He pointed a thumb at his chest. “What about me? Am I disposable? She’s tired of me, so she can just throw me away?”

  Dave’s anger was palpable. I took an involuntary step backward.

  “Where were you last Saturday night?” I asked.

  “Around one a.m.,” Janelle said.

  He was breathing heavily, a bulging vein in his neck fluttered. “I don’t have to tell you shit. Get out of here. All of you. And the next time you see Brenda, tell her I’m not giving her a dime. And I’m taking the boat.” He stomped off, kicking out a stack of cardboard boxes, sending them crashing to the concrete floor.

  “Wow, I thought Brent Crandall had anger issues.”

  “Wait, who’s that again?” Janelle asked.

  As we walked back to the car, I reminded her about Brent and gave them the lowdown on how angry he was at losing Crystal. I also told them about the hidden camera, secret tryst, police chief connection to Crystal.

  “What a mess. Asshat and Chicken Licker deserved each other,” Janelle said. “But finding her dead, it’s stuck with me, you know?”

  Roxy nodded. “Me, too. I dreamed about it last night.”

  I didn’t want to talk about it, so I changed the subject. “Dave Hutchins was certainly angry enough to hit Asshat. His wife was having an affair and the whole STD scenario, but what would his motive be for killing Crystal?”

  Roxy and Janelle both shrugged.

  Yeah, my thoughts exactly. I mentally crossed him off my suspect list.

  In the car, I grabbed the yellow pages and handed them to Janelle. “Let’s start hitting the pawn shops,” I said. I wasn’t sure how late they stayed open, and it was already five o’clock.

  Turns out, some pawn shops stayed open until midnight. Since I’d never been in one, at first I found myself spellbound by the disparate and bizarre array of items. Rifles lined the wall next to guitars. Tools were stocked side by side with well-worn cowboy boots. All types of jewelry—real and fake, sparkled in glass cases.

  At the fifth shop, Janelle and I wandered around and looked at the handguns in a locked cabinet—who knew they made pink revolvers—while Roxy stared at the moose head mounted to the wall.

  By now I had my story down pat. The four other places knew Marcus, but claimed not to have seen him in weeks. Hopefully we’d hit pay dirt soon. I was tired, my feet hurt, and I was starving.

  I walked to the front counter where a bald man wearing a leather vest watched my approach. He was covered in tats. Even his bald head had a large spider web inked on the dome.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked. He laced the words with a healthy dose of innuendo and leaned his arms on the counter.

  Janelle propped her hip on the case next to me. He glanced up at her, but his eyes quickly settled back on mine.

  “I’m in a bit of a bind.”

  “Tell Jay all about it, sweetheart,” he said.

  I placed my hands on the counter. “My friend, Marcus Walker, pawned something for me, but I lost my ticket.”

  He shook his bald web head. “That’s a damn shame, honey. Wish I could help you out.”

  I leaned closer. “You could give me some peace of mind. If I just knew my item was safe, I’d sleep a whole lot better. Just until I find the ticket.”

  His gaze strayed from my eyes, to my flat chest and back again. “I’m not supposed to do that. It’s against policy.”

  “I’ll never tell,” I whispered.

  “Sorry, honey.”

  I pushed off the counter and left the shop. Janelle and Roxy followed.

  “I can’t believe you girl,” Janelle said. “Flirting with a man like that. You really do love me, don’t you?”

  Roxy caught up to me and bumped her hip into mine. “Wait until Sullivan finds out he’s got some stiff competition.”

  “I think you’ve got the stiff part right,” Janelle said. “I thought baldy was going start humping her leg right there in front of us.”

  I lightly slapped
her arm. “Don’t be disgusting.”

  After I dropped the girls off and before heading home, I stopped at Axton’s.

  “You’re just in time for Henry’s pot roast,” he said. “I’ve already eaten and you are in for a treat.”

  I walked into the house and took a deep breath. Normally Ax’s house smells of eau de pot, but since Henry had taken up residence, it smelled like a home.

  Ax led me into the kitchen where Henry stood, his meaty hands shoved into reindeer oven mitts. “I was saving this for Sullivan, but he’s late.” He took a foil-covered plate from the oven and pealed back the layer of aluminum.

  Steam wafted up from the plate and my stomach growled. “This smells delicious, Henry.”

  He handed me a knife and fork and set a napkin-lined basket of biscuits in front of me. “I made honey butter.” He went to the fridge and grabbed a plastic container and placed that on the table, too.

  I smiled up at him. “You don’t want to bake thirteen dozen cookies for my sister’s cookie exchange, do you?”

  He frowned and sat next to me. “When do you need them?”

  I cut a piece of roast. “I was just kidding. I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “It’s just that I have this chocolate espresso cookie recipe I’ve been wanting to try.”

  “Only if you want to. It’s Tuesday night.”

  “I need to start a list.” He rose from the table and left the kitchen.

  Ax plopped down across from me.

  “Where’s Sullivan?” I asked. I forked the food in so fast, it burned my mouth.

  “Out doing Sullivan like stuff, I guess. Called and said if you showed up, to wait for him. Oh, I found out some crap on our crew.”

  He hopped up from the table and came back a few seconds later with brightly colored folders. “Each player has a different color.” He handed me the yellow folder. “Clay is Colonel Mustard.”

  I set down my fork, and flipped through the pages. Clay had a record from the eighties—burglary, assault. No shock there. But according to his stats, no arrests since.