by Tracey Quinn
“Hey, Dani,” called Abigail, my former high school English teacher and founding member of the club, “don't you do crocheting anymore?”
“No, I haven't had the time,” I replied as I was wiping off the counter. “But it might be a good idea to start again. They say that doing needlework helps a person relax. I read about the president of some big company who does crocheting in his office when he feels stressed. I could do with less stress.”
“Well, if he quit crocheting and spent more time running his business he probably wouldn't feel so stressed!” chimed in Audrey, who was seated opposite Abigail. “That's a man for you, playing around when he should be turning his hand to some work!”
Audrey's husband Arthur used to run the grain mill, and when he passed on 18 years ago Audrey took over. The mill was on the verge of bankruptcy because the big companies that had modern machinery could grind flour, cornmeal, and the like a zillion times faster that an old grindstone could. Audrey recognized that there was a huge market for specialty “stone-ground” organic grains and she turned the business around in less than a year after Arthur met his maker.
Of course, Arthur could have done the same thing when he was alive, but he spent most of his time at Sammy's Lounge drinking away all his troubles. One morning he slipped on the wet floor as he was leaving the lounge and fractured his skull on the corner of a pool table. Sammy was afraid that Audrey would sue him for sure, but she didn't. While on some level she loved Arthur, she was also glad that he was out of the picture.
Helen Jameson, who was seated next to her sister Heather, said, “You really should take up crocheting again, Dani. You were good at it. I remember when you won a blue ribbon at the spring festival.”
“Yes, I remember that too,” I said, “Mom kept after me to enter the Kid's Project Contest and I crocheted an eight inch square pot holder. I beat out Freddie Smith's helicopter that he made from used yogurt cups. Quite a victory.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” Heather said. “Did you hear about Freddie Smith's cousin's wife's landscaper's brother getting arrested?”
“It's quite a scandalous story, from what I hear,” Helen continued in a hushed voice.
Just then Jeff Goodwin, local reporter for the East Spoon Creek City Gazette, came in and strolled over to the counter.
“Ah, if it isn't the gorgeous Dani O'Shea,” he said. “Tell me, what do you do to make yourself more beautiful every time I lay eyes on you?”
“I spend eight to ten hours a day around boiling oil, steaming pots of water, and dirty dishwater,” I replied. “I highly recommend it. What can I do for you today?”
“Marry me and bear my children,” he suggested.
“You know that you don't look anything like Howard Keel,” said Audrey, “Give it a rest.”
Jeff turned toward the needlework club.
“Ah, now that's where you're mistaken,” he stated. “If you would have bothered to come watch last month's production of East Lynne at the Spoon Theater you would have seen me in makeup with a false mustache and my hair slicked down and dyed black, looking very much like Howard Keel.”
“How on earth did you get roped into playing a villain in a 1920's melodrama?” I laughed.
“Well, as you know I'm engaged to the lovely Teri Farnsworth, who unfortunately is Millie's sister, who I even more unfortunately work with,” he said. “Millie was playing the leading role in the show and five different leading men had quit, so I was drafted to fill in. I do believe that I gave each of you free tickets to the play right here in this very diner, and yet not a single one of you showed up to see it.”
“I had the flu,” Abigail said.
“I was out of town,” said Jenny.
“I think I was filling a prescription,” Tom added.
“We all hate Millie,” said Audrey.
“Who doesn't?” Jeff said, “But you could have at least been there to make sure I got out alive! I forgive you, but you should be ashamed of yourselves.”
“Oh, quit bellyaching, you big baby!” said Audrey. “Order some food! Dani's got a mortgage payment next week. And don't make her mad or she'll wrap you in bubble wrap, hit you in the face with a chocolate cake and pitch you in the dumpster!”
“No, Audrey,” said Helen. “Jimmy said it was a pie because the shiny, silver pie pan over the face made him think it was a space alien at first.”
“Ah, yes,” said Jeff, “the body in the dumpster. Toby, our copy boy, said Jimmy told him there must have been a dozen gun shots, possibly from a machine gun. You're really going to have to work on your aim, Dani. I would love to interview you and get the killer's perspective, but Millie, as our chief investigative reporter, has insisted on covering the story herself.”
“That's a shame, Jeff. This story could have won you a Pulitzer,” I said.
“I know! I had come up with a great headline, too: 'Local diner owner serves up a Dessert Corpse'!”
A wave of groans issued from the needlework club.
“Everyone's a critic,” Jeff said. “Anyway, if Millie uses it for her article, just know that she stole it from me.”
“I assume you'd like to drown your sorrow in some lunch?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact, I would,” he replied, scanning the menu on the wall thoughtfully. “Let's see, I'll have the 'Giant Baked Spud' with chili, cheese, onions and jalapenos, and the steak sandwich, some of that cinnamon apple pie with caramel ice cream, a large Coke, oh... and throw in a house salad with ranch so that I might actually digest all that.”
“Sour cream and butter with the spud?” I asked.
“Why not?”
I could think of a lot of reasons why not, but the customer is always right. Jeff never skimped on food and he never gained weight. I was envious. Jeff not only worked as a reporter, but several years ago he had started an advice column called “Ask Auntie Lou”. The column started out as sort of as a joke, but to his surprise it became so popular locally that other newspapers wanted to buy it. He now had more than 300 newspapers running “Ask Auntie Lou” and Jeff was doing pretty well financially to say the least.
He and Teri Farnsworth had been in love for years and they had finally set the date, and of course Millie tried to do everything she could to prevent them from getting married. Like most folks in town, she didn't know that Jeff was Auntie Lou, and she thought of him simply as a lowly beat reporter, not worthy to marry a Farnsworth. Teri runs a very successful organic vegetable and herb farm but, of course, Millie looks down on her as well. She doesn't understand why Teri would stoop to working as a “simple farmer”. Teri and Jeff don't give two cents about Millie's opinion though, which only infuriates her more.
After I placed the order I went up to the cash register where Jerry West, coach of the East Spoon Creek High School basketball team and an old classmate of mine, was waiting to pay his bill.
“How's it going, Jerry?” I asked as I rung up his check. “Are we going the win the basketball tournament this year?”
He looked up and smiled. “Oh, sure,” he said, “no doubt about it. We'll make history this time.”
None of the East Spoon Creek High School teams had never never come close to winning the tournament in the whole history of the school. Jerry was a fine coach but you have to have the right material to build a winning team and East Spoon Creek City wasn't exactly brimming with talent. Even though championships were out of reach though, we all held out hope every year that we would at least beat our arch-rivals Pumpkin City. That didn't happen a lot either, but often enough to keep hope alive.
“Oh, that reminds me of something, Dani,” Jerry said. “The Junior/Senior Prom is coming up and I'm in charge of rounding up some chaperons. Millie Farnsworth will be there and she's bringing Jack Hartley, but I need a few more couples. I could always count on Sheila and Hamilton Hamsky, but that's obviously not possible this year, so I thought of you and Mark Adams.”
Chaperon a high school prom. Spend four or five hours trying to
keep a bunch of teenagers from being naughty. And Millie would be there. Not my idea of a good time. I tried to think of a plausible lie as quickly as I could.
“Gosh, I wish we could help,” I said, “but Mark's schedule at the firehouse is pretty tricky. Of course I'll ask him if he can get time off because I'm sure he'd want to help too, but....”
“I understand,” Jerry said. “Let me know if he can do it.”
He paid and left, and not two minutes later, I saw Mark walking in the door with another milk shake in his hand.
“That was a close call!” I muttered.
“Hey, Dani,” Mark called, “I'm going to change the oil in my truck this afternoon. Does your Firebird need the oil changed?
“Actually, it does,” I replied, “I haven't had the time to go over to Pumpkin City to get it done.”
“Let me guess,” he said. “Last time you got your oil changed over at McGarity's and he let Cooter do the job and your car hasn't been the same since.”
“Don't tell me it happened to you, too?” I laughed.
“Yep,” he answered. “Bob warned me about it, but it was too late. When I picked up the truck, the wipers wouldn't turn off, the brakes didn't work and two of my tires had lost air.”
Cooter James was a 30 year old goofball and an accident waiting to happen. If there was a careless or boneheaded mistake to be made, Cooter had probably made it at one time or another. Since he had started working at McGarity's garage, no car in East Spoon Creek City had been safe, and no customer had been happy with Cooter. This was unfortunate for him, but it was even more unfortunate for the manager of the Farnsworth Bank, James Cooter, who was constantly receiving phone calls from Cooter James' angry customers.
You couldn't find two more different personalities; James Cooter was a responsible person who had held a good job since he graduated high school and was as fastidious a manager as they come. Cooter James, on the other hand, worked here and there, never held a steady job, and was all in all, just Cooter. He wasn't a bad guy and wouldn't purposefully do anything to hurt anyone, but whatever he did he screwed it up big time. Needless to say, James Cooter was not Cooter James' biggest fan.
“How could Cooter mess up an oil change on a Ford 150 truck?” I asked. “I mean, they're the most common truck sold in the country. I'm sure Mike McGarity had a how-to book on how to change the oil in an F-150.”
“Why, yes, he did,” Mark replied. “Only Cooter explained that he couldn't find it. So since Mike was at lunch and he didn't want to bother him, he used a manual for a Mack Truck. 'A truck's a truck,' he said, 'How different could they be?'”
“Of course he would do that,” I laughed. “When I first moved back to town and took my very precious Pontiac Firebird over to have the oil changed and saw Cooter lugging a can of kerosene and a funnel over towards the car, I told him I had changed my mind and had to leave. I know McGarity is trying to help him out but I don't think he ever told him he could do oil changes. He's supposed to just work in the car wash. Poor Cooter, he messes up, but he's really harmless.”
“Harmless?” Mark said. “I had no brakes, Dani! Not quite what I'd call harmless!”
I agreed that that was the wrong word. “He is good-hearted, though.”
“Sure, but we'd all be a lot better off if he was good-headed. So do you trust me to change the oil on your car?”
“I'd appreciate it a lot,” I replied. “But only if you let me pay you.”
“No need,” he said. “I bought a case of motor oil and I can't use it all. Also this is the third milkshake Brendan gave me on the house.”
Brendan Hurley and I work together on one of the eight hour shifts at the diner and Linda and Don work the other eight hours. Brendan is a retired firefighter who loves to cook, and fixed most of the meals at the firehouse when he worked there. When I opened the diner he came in and asked if I needed help and I hired him on the spot. Everyone in town knew what a terrific cook he was and I was thrilled that he was willing to work for the price I was able to pay.
“Third milkshake!” I said. “What in the world is wrong with you? Why are you drinking three milkshakes? Are you all right?”
“Well, I am now,” he replied. “Tim Donahue has been doing most of the cooking at the firehouse nowadays and he just discovered that jalapenos are not the only kind of hot pepper in existence. He made chili today and added some kind of flaming peppers called Scotch Bonnet. We drank up all the milk at the firehouse so I came over here to see if I could get some relief from the burning taste buds. Fortunately Brendan saved my life with these milkshakes. You should have one. The vanilla with caramel is great.”
“I know,” I said, “but if I start I probably wouldn't stop till I gained ten pounds.”
“You could stand to put on ten pounds,” he said, still sipping his milkshake.
“Mark Adams, I love you!” I said. “Usually people tell me I could stand to lose a few pounds.”
“Dani O'Shea, I love you, too,” he responded. “We could get married this afternoon but I have to do those oil changes.”
“Well, dang,” I said, “and here I was looking forward to saving money on my income tax.”
“Yes, it's a shame, “ he said. “I was looking forward to, uh, well, let's go with saving money on my taxes, too. Yep, that's what I was looking forward to, all right.”
At that moment, the front door of The Breezy Spoon opened and Jerry West came back inside.
“Hey Dani, I think I left my phone here,” he said. “It must have fallen out of my pocket in the booth-- Oh, hey there, Mark! Dani and I were just talking about you.”
“Is she already planning to murder me and toss me in the dumpster so soon after the last one?”
“Not yet,” Jerry laughed. “I was asking her if you and she would be up for chaperoning at the prom this year.”
“And I was telling him about your busy schedule--” I started quickly.
“Sure, we'd be glad to, Jerry,” Mark said. “When is it?”
“This Friday. I really appreciate this. It isn't always easy to find chaperons. You can't imagine how many people had previous engagements that far in advance.”
“Not a problem,” said Mark. “We're looking forward to it.”
Jerry found his phone on the seat of the booth, and when he had gone, I turned to Mark. “'Sure, we'd be glad too, Jerry, we're looking forward to it'! What was that about?”
“I thought you might like to re-live your high school days and go to a prom. Don't you like to dance?”
“Not to Bill Haley and the Comets!”
“Who?”
“Exactly,” I said. “They only allow Golden Oldies so the kids don't snuggle and smooch. Besides, don't you have to fight fires on Friday nights?”
“Only the flames of love that I have burning in my heart for you,” he replied as he stood up to go. “Now give me your keys, and I'll change your oil.”
“They're in my office on the desk. You'll get them yourself if you don't want them thrown at you.”
“Such ingratitude! And here I am saving you from the clumsy clutches of Cooter James!”
He went to the office and returned a minute later with the keys and a DVD.
“Spectre,” he said, “I found it sitting on your desk. Have you seen it yet?”
“No, that's Bob's copy that he dropped off this morning. I'm probably the last person left on earth who hasn't seen it, so he let me borrow it.”
“Next to the last,” he said. “Okay if I borrow it after you watch it?”
“Well, I was planning to watch it tonight,” I said. “If you want to watch it with me I'll bring home some dinner; that is, if you think you'll be capable of eating by seven o'clock.”
“That would be great,” he said, “as long as it's not chili.”
“No chili; Brendan made his famous ground steak meatloaf today. It's stuffed with cheese,and wrapped in bacon. It comes with garlic roasted new potatoes and fresh green beans. I have to go over to
Tammy's bakery now to give her advice which she won't take and I'll grab some butter flake dinner rolls and a jar of those peach preserves she makes. Unless you'd like yet another milk shake?”
“No,” he said, “but I'll bring the popcorn, double butter, theater style.”
“After all that food you think you'll want popcorn?” I asked.
“James Bond takes his time getting the bad guys,” he said. “We may need nourishment about half way through.”
“Of course,” I said. “How silly of me not to think of that.”
“Nothing goes better with a movie than eating popcorn with too much butter and salt, drinking a gallon of Coke, and snuggling and smooching like kids at the prom.”
“As they say, 'two out of three ain't bad',” I replied. “I'll get Linda to fix us some sandwiches while I change.”
“Which 'two out of three'?” he asked.
“You'll have to wait and find out.”
Chapter 5
As I walked through the front door of the bakery, I was met by the wonderful aroma of freshly-baked cookies, and by Tammy, standing behind her counter with hands on hips.
“I put a lot of love and effort into every pie I make and I want people to enjoy them, Dani,” she said. “If you're going to keep smashing them in the faces of the men you kill, I may not continue to sell to you.”
“Fine, I'll use a pie from the supermarket for my next victim,” I replied. “How about some peach preserves? Can I get a jar if I promise not to decorate a dead body with it?”
Tammy laughed. She's a few years older than I am but a little shorter and thinner, with naturally curly hair. She had been by best friend even longer than Millie had been my best enemy. “How are you getting along with your hot fireman roommate?” she asked. “Are sparks flying yet?”
“Mark is a landlord, not a roommate. It's strictly a business deal, nothing personal.”