I wish I’d made some hatch marks on the bus seat to count the passing days, but it’s more than two and less than a million. Finally, the sign for Pin Cherry Harbor welcomes me and promises an end to this Groundhog Day of a bus ride.
It’s not a green and white metal sign like most places. No ma’am, this town has a bespoke sign carved from wood and hand-painted with bunches of what can only be pin cherries in each corner.
The bus lurches to a stop with a screech of the brakes and a puff of exhaust. I step off, choke on the engine’s haze, and walk to the sidewalk.
I immediately regret my decision to risk a cross-country migration.
No parade. No welcome wagon.
A typical relocation with all the familiar acid reflux and floating detachment.
I look up and down the street that seems to have fallen out of an old black-and-white movie. Nothing too appealing: Rex’s Drugstore, a boarded up Montgomery Wards, an unnamed hardware store. But when my eyes fall on Myrtle’s Diner the color floods in like a frame from Dorothy’s Oz, and I feel the call of the fry.
My stomach growls as I cross the street. When I open the door the smells of grease and goodness hit me almost as hard as the seven sets of eyeballs.
I nod and slip into the nearest booth.
A server who bears the nametag “Tally” swoops in.
“Just passin’ through, eh?” She nods, and her freshly dyed, flaming-red topknot reminds me of a cherry adorning a rather old sundae.
I could say “yes,” place my order, and go about my business, but . . . “No ma’am, I think I might stay. I’d like a cheeseburger, well done, with a side of fries. I’ll take a bottle of hot sauce with that if you’ve got it. Oh, and a soda.”
Tally’s pen does not move. It hovers above the order pad like a super-slo-mo space shuttle docking.
“That’s it for me,” I add with a tip of my head and a slightly raised eyebrow above my folksy grin.
Tally mumbles something incoherent and hustles back to the kitchen as fast as her elderly legs can take her.
I swivel my head to scan the place for a possible “Myrtle.”
All eyes, seven pairs, stare unblinkingly at me.
Including Tally and the cook, who both peer through the red Formica trim of the “orders-up” window.
I give another nod, turn back to my booth, and search diligently for nothing in my rucksack.
The silence reminds me of a country song where everyone can hear a pin drop, or an old saloon after the gun-slinging outlaw walks through the swinging doors. That’s me. I guess there’s a new sheriff in town and if they don’t like it—
The front door of the diner whips open and the actual strong-jawed, clean-cut sheriff bursts through. Uniform freshly laundered. Check. Blonde hair neatly slicked back. Check.
Do I love a man in uniform? Check!
“This the gal here?” The broad-shouldered sheriff gestures toward me and scans the patrons.
I don’t turn around, but I think it’s safe to assume they all nod.
“Hey there, Miss. We have a strict policy on vagrants in Pin Cherry Harbor. So, I’ll just get Tally to pack up your food to go and I’ll give you a lift outta town. Sound good?”
I could pull out the will and maybe even brandish the key. Of course, I go another direction entirely. I stand up real slow, like it pains me to have to do it. I look down at the black and white linoleum squares, take a deep breath and look up at the sheriff. When I catch sight of his dreamy blue eyes my heart snaps out a few extra beats and I forget the smart-alec line I want to say. Instead I go with, “Aren’t you a tall drink of water.” To be fair, he’s at least six-foot plus two or three inches.
He blushes profusely. The color only adds to his charm.
I smile wickedly as I remember my line. “I wasn’t expecting such a formal welcome, Officer, but I appreciate you takin’ time out of your busy day to make me feel so special.” I step closer.
He sucks in a breath and tries to step back. I say “tries” because he catches the heel of one of his steel-toed boots on the toe of the other, stumbles, flails, and snags my arm as he falls backward.
Now, I’m no waif, but I’m smaller than him. So, he continues to tumble and I, of course, land smack dab on top of him.
A collective gasp rises from the diner.
I instantly make matters worse by saying, “Well, welcome to Pin Cherry yourself, Sheriff.”
His angled jaw flexes and his muscular chest rises and falls rapidly beneath me. As his face shifts to a shade of red that surely puts the town’s namesake to shame, I roll clear and offer him a hand.
He shakes his head vigorously, releasing the slicked-back hair so that it falls over his eye in an unintentionally sexy manner. He gets to his feet under his own power.
I notice his thumb depress the button on his radio—twice. In case you’re not familiar, this is called “keying” your radio. As a film school dropout, I can tell you how we used to do this on the film set when we needed to respond to something that came over the headset but couldn’t answer verbally because the cameras were rolling. I’m pretty sure I just saw the sheriff signal for help.
Tally attempts to hand me a Styrofoam container.
I wave it away and finally brandish the key. “I’ll take that for here, Tally.” I turn to show everyone the key. “And then I’ll be opening up my bookstore if anyone needs a new summer read.” My heart thumps rapidly in complete opposition to my false bravado.
A voice crackles over the radio. “Sheriff, you’re needed urgently at headquarters.”
Didn’t I tell you?
Sheriff Too Hot To Handle scrapes his hair back into place, mumbles something under his breath, and practically runs out the door.
I grin stupidly and stare a little too long at his exit.
If one of my student films had been this riveting I never would’ve abandoned film school.
Tally returns with an honest-to-goodness plate, silverware, my soda, and a bottle of Tabasco that looks older than me.
I ease back into the booth and eat my burger like I got all the time in the world. The remaining customers trickle out—each one sliding me a hard side-eye as they pass.
Once the place clears of customers the cook saunters out and slips into the other side of my booth. His worn dungarees make a short squeak against the red vinyl.
He sizes me up, and I wonder if my bus-applied makeup and dry-shampooed hair will pass muster.
I size him up right back. He’s old. Not creepy-crumbly old, but the kind of face that has a story tucked in every crease and eyes that still hold a little fire in their coffee-dark depths. His grey hair is buzzed short, but covers his head in a utilitarian fashion.
I nod.
He nods.
“I’ve got money,” I say with a bit more indignation than I intend.
“I figured as much.” His voice is rough as a Brillo Pad, but as comforting as a favorite chair. “So Myrtle left you her bookshop, eh?”
“Mmhmm,” I say. I hope we’re talking about the same Myrtle. It’s especially confusing because I’m fairly certain I’m sitting in Myrtle’s Diner, and it seems unlikely that there could be two Myrtles in town.
“You don’t look much like her.” He tilts his head. “Maybe around the eyes. She had those mischievous grey peepers.” His gaze drifts off and a soft smile plays across his lips.
“Did you know my grandmother?”
“I figure I knew her better than you.” He clenches his jaw.
“Fair enough.”
“You got the gift, too?” His gaze narrows and he shifts in his seat.
I have no idea what he’s talking about. Is the bookstore the gift? And what does he mean by “too?” Is there some other person who inherited the shop? I swallow all those questions and go with, “I’m not sure what you mean?”
“Myrtle had visions. She called ’em premonitions. You get any of those?” He lifts his chin and waits.
And I thought Sedo
na was full of nutters. “Uh, nope. No visions here.”
“Why’d you come?” He leans back and places both hands against the edge of the table.
Aw what the heck. I got nothing to lose, right? “My mother died when I was eleven, I never knew my father, and life in general has not worked out so great for me. I figured I might as well see what Pin Cherry Harbor has to offer.”
He nods real slow and fixes me with a surprisingly gentle stare. “Burgers are on the house as long as you’re in town.” His eyes glisten as he whispers, “She would’ve wanted that.” He slaps the silver-flecked white table once, nods, and returns to the kitchen.
I walk to the counter and peer through the orders-up window. “You never answered my question. How well did you know my grandmother?”
He works his jaw back and forth and I can see he’s working hard to stuff his emotions back down where they belong. “Name’s Odell.”
That name rings a bell. I remember reading it on the bus when I was reviewing the will. It said, To Odell Johnson, who has always had my heart, I leave my share of Myrtle’s Diner. I smile knowingly and repeat my question. “So, how well did you know my grandmother?”
“I’ll answer that one on our second date.” A sly smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and crinkles his cheek.
“Fair enough.” I walk toward the door and toss over my shoulder, “I don’t suppose you can point me toward the bookshop, can you?”
He chuckles, and a metal spatula scrapes across the grill before he answers, “Down Main Street, to your left. Can’t miss it.”
If I had a quarter for every time someone had given me “can’t miss it” directions, I’d be a— Oh, that’s right. I am.
Chapter 4
Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle! You actually can’t miss it. Right on the corner of Main and First. I lean back and shade my eyes against the mid-morning sun. “Wow!” I look around to see if anyone heard my exclamation, but the streets are devoid of walkers, and the old truck sputtering down the road can’t hear a thing.
I walk down the side of the massive three-story brick building and run my hand along the rough red-brown surface. I catch my breath as I come face to face with the “great lake” mentioned in the documents, which provided much-needed entertainment on the bus. “Wow!” I say again.
I’ve never seen this much water in my entire life. The sheer volume is obscene. A flash flood in the desert during the brief monsoon season is a dripping faucet compared to this lush, liquid paradise. The sun sparkles off the water, birds swoop and dive overhead, the cool breeze flutters my hair, and—
“Hey there, you gonna open up or not?”
I swallow my awe and turn to see one of the pairs of eyes from the diner posted up outside my bookshop. I guess I’m gonna open.
I slip the chain with the key over my head as I walk toward my first customer. “I’m Mitzy. What’s your name?” The woman looks about fifty or sixty. I’m not that great at guessing people’s ages. Her black denim pants, Styx T-shirt, and biker boots say fifty-ish, but her severe grey pixie and lined face whisper an older tale.
“I didn’t come for chit-chat, girlie. Are ya opening or not?”
So much for Midwestern charm.
The eight-foot solid wood door that bars my entry to the bookshop is a work of art. I don’t have time to inspect the careful craftsmanship that adorns the massive piece with delicate and detailed carving—there is too much sighing and foot tapping behind me. I run my fingers along the edge opposite the hefty iron hinges and locate the cleverly concealed opening that contains the “plug.” Yes, I did learn how to pick locks from a delinquent older foster brother. But even he couldn’t have popped this cherry. His gross term, not mine. I slide my triangular key into the lock and turn. I don’t hear a click so much as I “feel” the lock open. I actually think I felt the whole store awaken. And I realize that sounds as weird as it—well, sounds.
I pull the heavy, ornate door open and have to physically arm-bar the patron from entering before me. It’s my shop. I want to be the first to walk in.
No Chit-chat exhales loudly.
I feel around on the left and right for the light switches. Nothing. Goose egg. Nada.
“Oh for cryin’ out loud,” exclaims No Chit-chat as she bustles past me and disappears into the store.
I gaze around in the dust-filtered window-light and breathe in the scent of worlds. I imagine a short film that will take place within—
LIGHTS.
A massive chandelier flashes to life above me and I gasp.
I crane my neck to take in the impossibly voluminous space. The building did not look anywhere near this large from the outside. There are three stories of bookshelves. All the way from the richly carpeted floor to the gleaming tin-plated ceiling.
A balcony curves from one side of the second floor to the other, passing through a lovely loft/mezzanine in the back.
I drop my bags to the floor and hop-step over the “No Admittance” chain, run up the wrought-iron circular staircase to the open-plan second floor, and take in the mesmerizing view back toward the rows of slumped-glass windows. Dust floating in the air seems to ride on a gentle breeze down to the bookcases in their thick, stoic rows on the first floor.
“You need me to run to the bank and get the drawer money?”
Oh crap, I completely forgot about my customer. I hurry down the stairs, trip a little, catch myself on the railing, stumble over my bags, and skitter to a halt in front of No Chit-chat. “Why would I need drawer money? And why would I send you to get it if I did, Mrs.—?”
“Nope. No ‘Mrs.’ Never wrapped that noose around my neck. Everybody calls me ‘Twiggy.’”
Twiggy. Hmmm. Now that would be the perfect name for Fat Carol. “All right. Can I help you find something today, Twiggy?”
“You can’t even find the lights, doll. And to answer one of your many earlier questions, you need drawer money to put in the cash register.” She puts up a finger, capped by a close-clipped nail, to shush me and continues, “You send me to get it ’cuz I been workin’ part-time for your Grams during high season since she had this old brewery converted into a bookstore.”
I glance around the utterly empty bookshop and nod and smile. “Well, how is it that you have access to my grandmother’s—rather—my bank account?”
“Are you always this thick, or did you hit your head when you tackled the sheriff?”
I clench my jaw to prevent a stream of unladylike phrases from spilling out of my beautiful mouth. “Humor me,” I manage to say.
“Tilly’s been the teller at the bank practically since the money came by stagecoach. She knows me. She knew your Grams. I walk in, ask for the drawer money, and she hands it over.” Twiggy shakes her head like she’s ashamed of me. “If I went in there and ask Tilly for $10,000 in small bills she’d laugh and call the sheriff. Understand?”
I barely understand a single word, but I’m not going to give her the satisfaction. I’ll refer you to a corollary to the first rule of foster care: never show weakness. “I understand that the only thing standing between me and an empty bank account is a sheriff who can’t manage to stand on his own two feet. Oh, and apparently Tilly simultaneously works at the bank and the diner.” I give her a “take that” smirk.
Twiggy looks heavenward and invokes my grandmother. “Myrtle Isadora Johnson Linder Duncan Willamet Rogers, if I didn’t think so highly of you I’d run this scrawny idiot out of town before sunset.”
All I heard was that she thinks I’m skinny. Nice. Oh, that and the fact that my grandmother had at least five husbands . . .
“Tally works at the diner. Tilly works at the bank. They’re sisters. Folks say their parents named each of the kids after the town where he or she was conceived. Now I’m not saying it’s an appropriate system, but the oldest sister got made in Tillamook, Wisconsin, and goes by Tilly. The youngest got made in Tallahassee, Florida, and goes by Tally, and the brother in the middle got cooked up in Toledo, O
hio, and goes by—”
“Toley,” I blurt.
“What the heck kinda name is Toley? No, wise-acre, he goes by Ledo.”
I don’t believe her for one second. I don’t think she liked me stealing her punch line, so she made up the bit about the brother. Regardless, apparently this ornery spinster is my employee, and since I know less than nothing about this place I better make nice. “I’ll make a note of those names. Now, would you please walk on over to the bank and get the drawer money. And maybe you can show me around the shop when you get back. Okay?”
Twiggy strides toward the front door and calls back, “Sure enough. I’ll show you around the museum and the apartment, too. I s’pose you’ll need a place to stay—if you’re stayin’.” Just before the door closes she adds, “Don’t mess with Pyewacket. He ain’t a fan of strangers, you know.”
The massive door bangs shut behind her, and I make a mental note to get some kind of spring or shock for the unwieldy thing. It’s strangely out of place in the brewery-turned-bookshop. The door is intricately decorated with symbols and figures that whisper of faraway places—perhaps my grandmother was a traveler. My gaze returns to the shelves and shelves of books. Reading was my escape from the pain and loss that followed my mother’s death. Books contained the only true friends I’d ever known. I smile broadly and close my eyes. I can almost feel the dust in the air, but I inhale deeply regardless of the atoms of paper I’m surely taking in. As I breathe in the energy flowing through the room, there’s a noise like someone scratching on metal.
I pop open my eyes and walk toward the sound. There must be a side or rear door. I wander into the back room where Twiggy disappeared earlier and the volume increases.
An illuminated “Exit” sign spills red light into the dim space. As I near the door the scraping becomes clearer. It is definitely an animal. My heart skips a beat. What if my grandmother left me a puppy? I slowly push open the door so I don’t hit the hopefully adorable puppy.
Imagine my shock and disappointment when instead of a cuddly bundle of cuteness, I discover a dog-sized alley cat that appears to be half bobcat and half demon! Oh, and it has something nasty in its pointy-toothed mouth. Great! I was hoping to come face to face with a dead mouse today.
Fries and Alibis Page 2