The Demise

by Diane Moody

  Harley approached the café, clearing his throat and adjusting his rug. “Funeral’s set for Friday,” he announced like a town squire. “Just got word from Patricia herself. None of the churches in Braxton are big enough, of course, so it was decided the funeral will be held over at the Community Theater. Yessir, this’ll be one for the record books. Standing room only. No doubt about it. Standing room only. Better get there early if you want a seat.”

  He waited as if expecting questions or a response, but none came. Finally, he cleared his throat once more, grabbed a maple bar from the pastry basket, and headed for the front door, repeating the news to everyone he met.

  No sooner had Harley left the café, than Floozy Lucy strolled through the swinging back doors, heading for the soft drinks. Thankfully, Georgia was busy doing what she always did when she was anxious—clipping her fingernails. They all held their breath, watching Lucy fill a drink, pop a straw in the lid and meander back out. With rolling eyes in unison, they let out a collective sigh, grateful for Georgia’s momentary preoccupation.

  INCOMING!

  Julie covered her coffee cup, a lesson she’d learned years ago in the office break room. The incessant snip snip snip of Georgia’s nail clippers was bad enough, but after watching a renegade sliver of Scarlet Surrender fly into her coffee just as she was about to sip, Julie made a mental note to forevermore protect her food and beverages when Georgia was near.

  Brad shuffled around them munching on a cinnamon bear claw and washing it down with Mellow Yellow. He took a final bite and swallowed, wiping his hand on his slacks. “Julie, could I talk to you for a minute?” He nodded his head away from the crowd.

  “Sure.” She followed him toward the dairy case.

  He stopped and turned to face her, tracing the rim of his plastic cup. “The thing is, I was wondering . . . well, since we don’t have to work the rest of the day, I was wondering if you’d like to catch a matinee or something.” He jostled the straw poking out of his cup.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No.” The straw jostling stopped. “Why?”

  “Because it’s inappropriate, Brad. You may not have been close to your uncle, but he meant a great deal to the people of this town, and that includes me.”

  He dashed a quick look, pushed his glasses up, then moved his attention over her shoulder. “Yeah. I know. I was just thinking maybe it would take your mind off all that. Mine, too.”

  “No.” She tucked her hands in her pockets and turned back toward the café.

  As Julie reached for her purse and said goodbye to the others, she watched Brad slip away, heading back toward the front of the store. Stalling to make sure he’d be gone, she took her cup to the trash can.

  A large, soft arm looped around hers. “Walk me out, Julie,” Georgia said, her tone hushed and reverent. “There’s much too sad in here. I need to go home and rest.”

  As they crossed the parking lot, Harley Creech’s delivery van whipped by them, stirring the warm summer air in its wake. At the sound of something snapping above them, they both looked up, noticing the store’s huge American flag swirling at half-staff.

  And once again, Georgia Schwimmer began to bawl.

  Chapter 4

  By 4:30 that afternoon, Julie wished the long day would end. She couldn’t stop thinking about Peter Lanham, continually visualizing him sprawled out on the rough pavement beneath the water tower, as if the paramedics had left him there. There it was again . . . her always active imagination, forever playing on the screen in her mind in vivid Technicolor. She felt so helpless, consumed with an absurd but urgent need to rush up that hill to the water tower and cover poor Peter Lanham’s body with a soft blanket.

  Or something.

  One thing she knew for sure: she would find out what really happened to Peter Lanham if it were the last thing she ever did.

  The script for Romeo and Juliet lay open on her lap, but her eyes kept drifting back to the movie screen in her mind. Who cares about the Montagues and Capulets when such a cloud hangs over our own little hamlet?

  Besides, she wasn’t so sure those two bonehead special agents had a clue what they were doing. Well, at least one bonehead. Berkowitz wasn’t only a jerk; he was completely out of touch with life in a small town like Braxton. But the younger one seemed nicer, even if he was new at his job. Much more approachable. What was his name? Matt something . . . Tyson? No, Bryson. That’s it. Matt Bryson. If she ever needed to discuss the case, it would certainly be with the rookie.

  From the overstuffed chair by the loft’s front window looking out over the square, Julie glanced down as a blue Jeep Cherokee pulled into a parking place right in front of Denton’s Diner. Someone stepped out of the vehicle, then pulled off his tie and carefully placed it on the dashboard before slamming the door. When she spotted a briefcase in his other hand, she realized it was Matt Bryson.

  Coincidence? I think not.

  Besides, Julie didn’t believe in coincidences. She preferred to think of them as divine appointments. Which is why she chucked her script and scampered to her room. She swapped her T-shirt for a collared white blouse, decided to wear the faded jeans she had on, then gathered her hair into a ponytail, grabbed her keys, sunglasses, and purse, and raced down the stairs. Once outside, she strolled down the sidewalk hiding behind her favorite sunglasses—knock-offs, identical to the ones Julia Roberts wore in Notting Hill. Casually, she crossed the street and made her way to the restaurant.

  Like everyone else in town, Julie loved Denton’s. The view of its blue-and-white striped awning from her loft window always seemed like an open invitation, as welcoming as her own mother’s kitchen. The Dentons knew everyone’s name, from parents and kids to grandkids, aunts, and uncles. Their mouthwatering, home-style cooking beckoned customers from one end of the state to the other with “food to die for,” as the locals were fond of saying.

  Julie winced, the silly phrase reminding her once again of Mr. Lanham—God rest his soul—and the reason for her sudden decision to pop in at the diner. As curious as she was hungry, she peeked through the fat gold letters spelling Denton’s Diner on the front window, hiding between the D and the E.

  Ah, there he is. Back booth.

  She watched as Sarah Denton approached him and set a large glass of water on his table along with a menu. Sarah chuckled at something he said then headed back to the kitchen. Julie couldn’t help noticing his dimpled smile. She waited until Sarah cleared the zone, then wandered in, willfully projecting the very essence of nonchalance. After saying hello to a couple of Gevin’s friends seated near the front, she stopped by another booth to chat with the Gowdens and Greers, two eighty-something couples who ate dinner at Denton’s every afternoon at 4:30 sharp. Since they were seated in the booth directly beside Bryson’s, Julie hoped he could overhear her conversation with them.

  Evelyn Greer took Julie’s hand in hers. “We’re sure sorry to hear about your boss, Julie.”

  “It’s a devastating loss,” she said. “To be honest, I still can’t believe it.”

  Frank Gowden uttered something like a growl and said, “Well, all I can say is good riddance. Lanham weren’t no god, and I for one am glad he’s gone.”

  “Frank! Keep your voice down,” his wife Lillian barked in a whisper.

  “Why should I? What did Peter Lanham ever do for me? He threw his money around this town, putting all our mom and pop stores out of business, acting like he owned the town. The man was a blight on Braxton. A blight, I tell you.”

  Julie couldn’t believe the old man’s audacity. “Mr. Gowden, surely you don’t believe that?”

  “A lot of people in this town have food on their table and a roof over their heads because of Peter Lanham,” Paul Greer added. “For pity’s sake, Joe, have a little respect, will you? The man’s not even cold in his grave yet.”

  Out of her periphery, Julie caught Bryson leaning around the booth, craning his neck.

  He startled at seeing her. “Oh . . .
hello.”

  She excused herself from the Gowdens and Greers and moved toward his booth. “You’re Special Agent Bryson, right? You were in our office this morning at Lanham’s?”

  He looked at her as if she’d just sprouted a third eye. “Uh . . . oh—yes. Of course. Yes, I was. That was me, I mean. Yes. I’m Matt. Matt Bryson.” He forced a laugh as he stood. After a moment’s hesitation, he extended his hand. “Would you care to join me, Miss—?”

  She shook his hand. “Julie Parker, but please call me Julie. But I don’t want to intrude. Were you waiting on your boss?”

  “My boss?”

  “Tall bald guy with the Bruce Willis complex?”

  He laughed, motioning for her to have a seat across from him. “You mean Berkowitz?”

  She slid gracefully into the booth. “Berkowitz. That’s right. Sam Berkowitz. Or should I say, Mr. ‘I’m-not-the-Son-of-Sam’ Berkowitz.”

  He laughed again, tossing his notepad into the briefcase and placing it on the seat beside him. “Don’t let him scare you. It’s all for effect. Trust me on that.”

  “Oh, I’m quite sure of that.” She grabbed the menu from him and looked it over even though she knew it by heart. Without looking up, she continued. “My guess is he’s 99.9% full of himself. The shaved head, the wrinkled retro suit? Who dresses like that on a sunny day in the middle of June? For that matter, who dresses like that in the twenty-first century?” She closed the menu and handed it back to him. “A classic Bruce Willis-wannabe trying to rock a little Dick Tracy in the mix.”

  Julie caught him staring at her. At her lips, to be exact. Normally, this is when she would exit stage left. She hated the feeling of men ogling her. But coming from Agent Bryson it seemed completely innocent. Their eyes met, and the strangest thing happened. He blushed.

  “What?” she asked.

  “What do you mean, what?”

  “You’re blushing. Did I say something wrong?”

  Suddenly, a large glass of ice tea was placed on the table in front of him. “Oh, Julie, sweetheart, I didn’t see you come in.” Sarah Denton leaned down to give her a hug.

  “Hi, Sarah. I hope it’s okay that I joined Matt here.”

  Sarah straightened, grasping Julie’s hands in hers. “I’m so sorry about Mr. Lanham, honey. It must have been so hard for y’all today, what with hearing about him—well, you know. Are you okay?”

  “I think so. It was a shock to all of us, that’s for sure.”

  “That it was, sweetheart. That it was. It’s all anybody’s talked about in here today. We’ve been busy ever since word spread. I think mostly they’re all just curious and wanting to talk about it. You know how these things are.”

  She’d always adored the way Sarah talked. She could listen to the warm southern lilt of this Georgia transplant all day long. Sarah wiped a tear and patted Julie’s hand one more time. Reaching for her order pad, she turned her attention to Matt. “Well, then. Back to business. Special today is meatloaf. Comes with your choice of three sides. You’ll find ’em listed there on the right-hand side of your menu. We’re out of butter beans and squash casserole, just so you know. Today’s dessert is peach cobbler. Do y’all need a minute, or are you ready to order?”

  Julie ordered a small dinner salad and a glass of water with lemon. Matt ordered the meatloaf with mashed potatoes, green beans and cinnamon apples to be followed by peach cobbler á la mode.

  Once Sarah left, Julie plodded ahead while folding her hands on the table. “Now, where were we?”

  He barked a nervous cough then answered. “Berkowitz. If he was out of line, I apologize.”

  “No need for you to apologize.” She shook her head and smiled. “I’ll be honest with you. I learned a long time ago how to handle men like Sam Berkowitz. Guys like him think girls like me are blonde, dumb, and easy. I’m none of the above. Well, except blonde, of course.”

  “Good to know, though I didn’t think for a minute you were dumb or easy. Just so you know.”

  “Oh, I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure I do. You’re a gentleman. A gentleman respects a woman for who she is, not how she looks or imagines how she looks.”

  He raised his eyebrows, appearing pleased by the compliment. “So tell me, Julie Parker, what are your thoughts about the death of Braxton’s leading citizen?”

  Sarah returned with their food then topped off Matt’s tea before disappearing again. Matt started to take a bite when Julie bowed her head.

  “Father, thank You for this food and for all Your blessings. Amen.”

  “Amen,” he echoed.

  Julie unfolded her napkin and set it on her lap. “Are you a Christian, Matt?”

  “Who me? Yeah. I suppose.”

  She waited for more, amused when he blushed again, and decided to drop the subject for now. Forking a small cherry tomato, she continued. “You asked about Mr. Lanham’s death.”

  Matt took a bite of meatloaf. “Oh my. Oh myyyy . . .” He kept chewing, his face an expression of sheer bliss. “This is so good.” He closed his eyes to prolong the moment. Once he finally wiped his mouth, he looked her straight in the eye. “Now there’s your religious experience. That’s the best meatloaf I’ve ever tasted. Here, you want some?” He cut a piece with his fork.

  “No, thanks. I grew up on Gordy’s meatloaf. That’s Sarah’s husband. Best cook in the state of Tennessee.”

  “Obviously. This is better than my mom’s.” He nodded toward her plate as he dragged a piece of meatloaf through his mashed potatoes. “So why the salad?”

  “I’m an actor. I have to watch what I eat.”

  “An actor? That’s right—they told me you’re the Lanham’s Girl. You do the company commercials, right?”

  She nodded with a smile.

  “But Lanham’s is your day job?” He buttered a fat biscuit, while she finished a mouthful.

  “In a manner of speaking, though I prefer to think of it as my laboratory. I’m a student of human behavior. I study my coworkers—their attitudes, mannerisms, quirks, habits—that sort of thing. I work hard to stay mentally sharp, honing what I consider my extremely perceptive people-skills to a fine art. The way I see it, this job pays the bills for now, but some day this people-watching will pay big dividends providing a treasure chest of character attributes for me to draw from when I’m on stage or in front of the camera.”

  Marty would be proud, she thought. The recitation originated with her drama coach, but Julie gave it her own spin. She could tell Matt was impressed. His mouth was crammed full of potatoes, so he didn’t respond, just quirked a nod of partial understanding.

  “In other words, I know these people,” she continued. “Which is why I’m here.”

  He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Why you’re here? You’ve lost me.”

  “I followed you here.”

  She watched his face crimson again. He took a long drink of tea, staring over the glass at her. “You followed me?”

  “Do you realize that you answer every question with a question?”

  He sat back. “I do?”

  “I rest my case.”

  “You do?” he teased with a smile. “Okay, maybe I do. But you haven’t answered my question.”

  Julie nodded toward the street. “Actually, I happened to see you out my loft window when you parked out front. I live across the street over my brother’s photography studio. When I saw you come in here, I decided to stroll over. I peeked in the window to make sure you were alone before I came in.” She took a sip of water, assuming an air of casual indifference despite her confession.

  He colored slightly, but the confidence behind his smile was unmistakable. “I love my job.”

  She laughed. “Is that so?”

  “Absolutely. First week on the job, first assignment, and I’m already being stalked by a beautiful woman. What’s not to love?”

  They laughed again, and she couldn’t help notice how his smile lit up his face. Something ab
out his kind eyes caught her off guard. She glanced away, fighting the distraction.

  “Okay, I’m sure it’s my dashing good looks that drew you in—”

  “That goes without saying.” More shared laughter. “Clearly, you’re adorable, but that’s not why I’m here.” She caught herself. “Not that you aren’t cute, because you are.” This time she faked a laugh. “Okay, now it’s my turn to blush.”

  “First I was adorable, now you think I’m cute. We’re making progress, I think.”

  For a moment her mind blanked, lost in the gentle gaze of his brown eyes . . . Oh, you’re definitely cute, Agent Bryson. Cute and adorable in that charming boy-next-door kind of way. The curly dark hair, your kind face and sweet smile, even the faint hint of your five o’clock shadow lends a quiet, masculine charm—

  “Miss Parker?”

  “What?” She waved a hand dismissing the rabbit trail of thoughts. “Sorry. You were saying?”

  “You were saying you stalked me because . . . ?”

  Julie straightened her shoulders and looked him square in the eye. “I’m here to offer you my services.”

  “Your services?” He twirled his fork in the remaining mound of potatoes. “And what services would those be?”

  “Yes, Agent Bryson, I’m offering my services to assist in your investigation. You see, I’m more than qualified because I’ve—”

  “Oh, I get it now.” He set his fork on his almost-empty plate. “That’s very generous of you, but I really don’t think I’ll be needing your assistance.”

  “Hear me out, okay? You need me. You’re new to this area, right? Have you ever even heard of Braxton before?”

  “Well, no. I just got this job a week ago.”

  “So you don’t live here in Braxton?”

  “Me? No. In fact, I haven’t even found a place in Nashville yet. I’ve been staying at a motel since I—”

  “So I’m correct in saying you’re an outsider to the community of Braxton. But you see, I’m not. I grew up here. I know everyone. Which is precisely why you need me. The locals won’t open up to an outsider like they would to me.”