Star-Spangled Rejects (The Heavenly Grille Café Book 3)

by J. T. Livingston

  “Oh, they are most definitely a different kind of pickle,” Tramp laughed.

  “Well, I certainly hope none of you fellas stop at places like that!” Bertie pushed herself up and looked down at the three men who enjoyed teasing her. These three were some of her favorite customers, and it always made her feel better to enjoy a laugh or two with them—even if it was at her own expense. “I hope y’all saved room for dessert.”

  Tramp rolled his shoulders and looked out the window. “I’ll have some, Bertie, but I’ll have to make it quick.” He nodded toward the outside. “That sky is getting pretty dark out there, and I was hoping to make South Carolina before dark.”

  “I’ll be back in a jiffy, fellas. I’ll freshen up those coffees for you, too, because nothing goes better with double-chocolate brownie punch-bowl cake, than a good cup of coffee.” She winked at them and turned toward the kitchen.

  Max raised his brows at her when she entered the kitchen and shook his head.

  Bertie flopped her hand and wrist in his face. “So, I slipped up! It was only one cuss word, and it wasn’t even a cuss word, was it? I mean, all I said was I’ll be damned!” She turned to get bowls from the cupboard and removed the large punchbowl full of double-chocolate brownie cake—chunks of brownies on the bottom followed by layers of Cool Whip, chocolate pudding, and drizzled melted frosting, from the refrigerator. She filled three large bowls full of the decadent dessert. “Never mind, don’t answer that. I’m sure I’ll get an earful from Martin next Sunday. I’ll do better, I promise. I won’t say another bad word for the rest of this week!”

  Max just shook his head and grinned. “Bertie, my old friend, I have a distinct feeling that it will literally be a cold day in hell before you ever go more than a week without letting at least one bad word slip from your mouth.”

  “Well, you have to admit, I have gotten better at controlling my tongue, Maximus,” she lifted one shoulder and tilted her head in his direction. “Hand me one of those trays, will you?” she pointed to a stack of trays on the back counter. “This dessert of yours weighs more than I do!”

  Max handed her a tray and helped her load the desserts on it. “Doug should be back any time now to help you out.”

  “He went to visit PJ again, huh?”

  “Yes, he did,” Max nodded. “The police were visiting her again today to get a written statement from her about what she saw the night that Norman was killed. Doug and Bernard, both, wanted to be there with her—for moral support.”

  “Can she identify who the killer was?” Bertie leaned against the counter top.

  “I believe Doug said the police were bringing her some photos to look at, hoping she might be able to identify someone.”

  “Well, I hope she’s able to help bring some closure to all this mess. Have you heard anything else about the Crennan boy?”

  Max picked up the tray of desserts and held them out for Bertie. “No, nothing since Jason called Doug earlier this morning about the phone call that Cheryl received. I think all they can do right now is to sit tight and wait for the police to get back to them.”

  The angel chimes sounded as the front door opened, and a blast of cold air evaporated into the warm, inviting café. Bertie took the tray and turned to leave. “Looks like another hungry customer that’s come in from the cold. We’ll talk more later, Maximus—you be sure to let me know if you pick up on anything bad, you hear me?”

  “I hear you, Bertie,” Max grinned. He watched carefully while she placed the desserts on the truckers’ table and moved to seat the new customer.

  Bertie placed the bowls of punch-bowl cake in front of Tramp and the other two truckers. She leaned over and gave Tramp a final punch on the shoulder. “If you’re going to eat punch-bowl cake, then you’ve got to expect an extra punch to go along with it.” She laughed and moved quickly toward the front door. She paused when she looked over the elderly, well-dressed, man waiting to be seated. Something about him was special—but, she didn’t know exactly what. She cast a quick glance at Max, who was staring back at her and the customer, and saw him raise his eyebrows in surprise.

  “Come on in!” Bertie touched the old man’s shoulder—she could feel the frailty of his bones, even beneath the warm, knee-length coat he wore. “Let’s get you seated and warmed up. How about a cup of coffee to start things off? We have smothered steak with peppers and onions, seasoned rice, and the best broccoli casserole you’ve ever tasted. You can have your choice of breads, but I would highly recommend Max’s jalapeno cornbread to go with this meal—it sops up the gravy soooo good!”

  It wasn’t until she was leading him to an empty table, that Bertie noticed—and recognized—the dirty backpack that he carried with him. She looked down at the backpack and waited for the old man to be seated. She nodded at the backpack. “That’s Skipper’s backpack—might I ask what you’re doing with it?”

  The old man looked over at the backpack and patted it tenderly. “You knew my brother? I’m so glad. They told me at the police station that I might be able to find a man here, who knew Gordon—they said his name was Bernard Cartwright. Do you happen to know this man or where I might find him?”

  Bertie motioned for the old man to scoot over, and quickly sat down beside him. “Yeah, I know Bernard. You’ve come at just the right time, too, because he’s leaving town tonight—returning home to his family, I heard him say.” She stared at Charles for a moment longer. “So, you’re Skipper’s brother, huh? I thought he said you were sickly—too sick to travel?”

  The old man removed his hat to reveal a head full of silvery white hair. “Well, I’ll be eighty-one this year, so I definitely have my good days and my bad days—it does seem, lately, that the bad have outweighed the good, but…I wanted to come, personally, to claim my brother’s body—to return him home for a proper military burial. My name is Charles, and yes…I am Gordon’s older brother.”

  Bertie placed her hand upon the old man’s shoulder. “We were all so very shocked, and saddened, about Skipper’s—Gordon’s—death. It was just so sudden; nobody expected it.”

  “Well, since there was no evidence of foul play, neither the police—nor I—saw any reason for the need of an autopsy. We will just have to assume that Gordon’s heart finally gave out. My biggest regret, though, is that he was alone when he died. Nobody should be all alone when they leave this earth.” Charles slumped a little in his seat, but immediately sat upright again. “Forgive me, dear lady…”

  Bertie shook her head and smiled at Charles. She looked deeply into his sad eyes and said, “Nobody is ever all alone when they leave this earth.”

  It took Charles a moment to understand what the waitress was referring to, but when he did, he nodded. “You’re talking about God, I presume? Well, unless he changed dramatically since the last time I saw him, I’m almost certain that Gordon had given up on your God—a long, long time ago.”

  Bertie stared back at the old man. “Something tells me you might have, too?”

  It wasn’t like Charles to open up to a total stranger like this, but there was something instinctively trustworthy about this woman. He nodded and closed his eyes. “You would be right. Something happened to me many years ago that instilled that doubt deeply inside me.”

  “What might that be…” Bertie began, but stopped when the angel chimes sounded again at the front door. She turned to look back and saw Doug and Bernard shuffle in. She stood up and said, “Excuse me, but, there’s Bernard now. I’ll send him over so that the two of you can have a little chat, and I’ll get your food ready. I’ll have Doug bring you and Bernard some coffee over, okay?”

  “That would be nice,” Charles smiled. “Thank you, very much.” He sighed and took a deep breath. It would be interesting to talk to Bernard—a stranger who probably knew Gordon much better than his own brother ever did.

  Bertie rushed over to Doug and Bernard. “Hey there, handsome. Everything go okay with PJ?”

  Doug nodded. “It went better than
just okay, Bertie. PJ was able to identify the young man who pushed Norman against that concrete wall. His name is Kirk Blankenship. She said there were two or three other boys with him, but she couldn’t positively identify any of the others—just Kirk. The police are working on things now to bring Kirk in for questioning.” He looked back at Bernard. “Come on over to the counter, Bernard, and I’ll get you that coffee I promised you.”

  “Oh, no you don’t!” Bertie punched Doug and grabbed Bernard by the sleeve. She pointed to the old man sitting in the first booth by the door. “See that man sitting there by the door?” She waited for Bernard to nod, and continued. “Well, that’s Skipper’s brother, and he was hoping to have a chat with you about him.”

  “With me?” Bernard drew back. “But, I barely knew the man.”

  “Trust me,” Bertie locked elbows with Bernard. “As true as that statement might be, you knew him better than his own brother did!” She looked back at Doug and instructed him to bring two coffees to table #1.

  Bertie led Bernard to the table and introduced the two men. “Coffee’s on its way, fellas. I’ll go get that food I promised you.” She winked at Doug on her way into the kitchen. “Don’t keep them waiting, handsome!”

  Doug waved at Bertie and nodded. He filled two cups with steaming hot coffee and walked over to the two men, who had quickly fallen into a mutual discussion about Skipper. He sat the coffees on the table and was turning to leave when the hairs on the back of his neck literally stood on end. He held his breath for what seemed like an eternity before turning back to get a better look at Skipper’s brother.

  “Charles? What’s wrong?” Bernard asked with an extremely worried expression covering his face. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  The look of panic, fear, and disbelief was more than evident on Charles Whiting’s wrinkle-lined face. His eyes grew wider and his mouth turned dry as it fell open. He balled his right fist tightly against his upper left chest and began hyperventilating—all this, while never taking his eyes off Doug.

  Doug moved in slow motion as he turned completely around to face the old man sitting with Bernard at table #1. His own eyes expressed shock and disbelief, and he shook his head slowly from side to side. “It can’t be…”

  Charles pointed a bony finger at him and shook his head in adamant denial. He repeated Doug’s words, “It can’t be…”

  Doug began backing away slowly from the table and quickly bumped into Bertie.

  “Whoa, handsome—be careful, or you’ll be wearing this smothered steak…” she ceased talking when she saw the bewildered and perplexed expression on Doug’s face. She looked beyond him at table #1 and saw an identical expression on Charles Whiting’s face. “What the hell is going on?”

  Doug’s rapid breathing eventually slowed, and he whispered as he rushed past her. “Charles Whiting? I knew him only as Chuck; he’s the man who accidentally killed me in 1953…”

  CHAPTER 37

  Still Waters Don’t Run Deep Enough

  Kirk’s balled fists remained at his side. He stood still and waited for his father to get out of his Mercedes. His rapid, exhaled breaths spurted small streams into the frigid air. “What are you doing here?” He pursed his lips tightly together; they were already tinged a light blue from his short time outside.

  Ernest left the car running and closed the driver’s door behind him. “What am I doing here? What are you doing here, Kirk? You’re supposed to be in school.”

  Kirk’s mind was running in a thousand different directions. He had to get his father out of here, without him going inside the house, but he had no idea how he was going to accomplish that. “I left early,” he mumbled and shoved his hands deep inside his jacket pockets. “I…I couldn’t concentrate today…”

  Ernest nodded. “I know, son. I was feeling the same way. Today is a hard day for us both, I know. I thought coming to the lake house would help.”

  Kirk had no idea what his father was talking about; with everything that had transpired over the past several days, he had forgotten that today was the anniversary of his mother’s passing. “What?”

  Ernest stiffened and stood up straighter. “Did you forget, son—about what today is—the anniversary of your mother’s death?”

  Kirk was rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. He bit his bottom lip and said, “I’m surprised you remembered that, Dad.”

  The steps he took toward his son were slow and deliberate. He stopped when he was within a couple of feet of Kirk. “Of course, I remember it. I loved your mother more than life itself. I thought I would die myself when we lost her—sometimes, I wish I had.”

  Kirk didn’t even try to hold in his anger. “I wish it had been you instead of her!” he yelled, removing his hands from his pockets and balling them into fists once again. “It should have been you!”

  Ernest took a step backward. “That’s an awful thing to say, son…” He knew his son had become bitter and resentful—especially since the marriage to Rae—but, he never guessed that he held such hatred against him. “Please—let’s go inside where it’s warmer—let’s talk about this.”

  Kirk panicked. There was no way he could allow his father to enter the lake house; he couldn’t let him find Jimmy Crennan. “No!” he yelled as he turned and fled back toward the dock.

  “Kirk! Wait!” Ernest chased after his son as fast as his overweight stature would allow. “Come back—please!”

  Kirk stopped when he got to the end of the dock. He glanced down into the murky water, expecting once again, to see the old woman’s face staring back at him. “This was a mistake,” he told himself. “This is the last place I needed to lead my father to—no—inside the house is the last place…” He turned around quickly and saw his father stop about twenty feet from him, bent over, huffing and puffing. “Go away, Dad! Leave me alone—I need to be alone!” A lone tear escaped the corner of his eye. “Please…if you still love me, please…just go…leave me alone today, okay?” He took a step backward and teetered close to the edge of the dock.

  Ernest thought his son was going over the edge of the dock and, instinctively, rushed forward in an attempt to save him. He reached Kirk quicker than he thought was humanly possible and grabbed for his son’s outstretched hand. His hands were sweaty from the effort of his jog to the dock, and they easily lost the grip on Kirk’s hand.

  Kirk grabbed hold of a corner post and managed to keep himself upright, but his father was not as agile and coordinated. He lost his footing when he lost the grip on Kirk’s hand. His feet shot out from under him and he fell backward, hitting his head on the dock before continuing his slide toward the dark, shadowy water beneath them.

  The splash was much louder than the splash the old woman had made earlier that morning.

  “Kirk! H-E-L-P!” His father screamed from below the dock.

  “Oh, no…” Kirk pressed the heels of his hands tightly against his ears, trying to drown out the sound of his father’s plea for help. He didn’t know what to do—which way to turn—but, he knew he had to get out of there—to erase any evidence that he had been at the lake house. He backed away slowly at first, then turned, and ran full-force toward the lake house.

  Ernest was trying to keep his head above the water, but his heavy winter clothing—now water-logged—was pulling him downward like a magnet. “Kirk!” he managed to yell out one more time before beginning to sink. He took a deep breath before his head went under and tried to kick off his shoes. He pushed the shoes off and struggled to shimmy out of his heavy jacket. He had sunk about ten feet, and almost had the jacket completely off, when his foot bumped against something in the water below him. He looked down quickly and stopped kicking, a regrettable action which caused him to immediately begin sinking further.

  One arm was still caught in the jacket when he came face-to-face with Stella Seiber.

  Jimmy was sitting on the edge of the bed when he heard the glass door slam open. He tried to stand up, but the poundi
ng in his head made the room spin and he sat quickly back down. His right eye was completely swollen shut now, and blood had seeped through his bandaging and soiled the bed sheets. He didn’t know why he felt the need to do it, but he quickly covered the sheets with the blanket and tried to stand up again.

  He heard the slamming of doors and cabinets. He, also, heard Kirk yelling a stream of profanities that would make any sailor proud. He had not heard any voices other than Kirk’s, so he assumed that Kirk was still alone. He pressed his right forearm under his left rib cage and moved slowly toward the open doorway of the bedroom.

  Kirk sensed someone watching him and looked up to see Jimmy leaning against the doorway.

  “What’s going on?” Jimmy asked weakly.

  Kirk stopped what he was doing and marched rapidly toward Jimmy. His first instinct was to shove him hard against the door, but he managed to refrain from doing so. Instead, he shook his fist in front of Jimmy’s face and yelled; spittle flew from his raging mouth. “It’s your fault—all of this is your fault. None of this would have happened if I could have trusted you to keep your damn mouth shut.”

  “What do you mean, it’s all my fault, Kirk?” Jimmy felt lightheaded and held onto the door frame for support. “I told you all along that I wasn’t going to say anything to anyone, and I never told a soul—not even my mom…”

  “Oh, you think you’re so perfect, don’t you, Crennan? Well, it’s not fair—it just isn’t fair that you still have your mom.”

  “What!?” Jimmy shook his head. Kirk wasn’t making any sense at all. What did their moms have to do with any of this?

  “Shut up and get ready. We’re leaving here.” Kirk turned and continued shoving food and kitchen items into a large shopping bag.

  Jimmy watched as Kirk threw several sharp knives into the bag, and his heartbeat rose quickly. “What do you mean, we’re leaving here? Where are we going? Why? What are you going to do with me?”