The American Café

by Sara Sue Hoklotubbe

  “Honey, Pearl wasn't right,” said Emma. “She had to be out of her mind to murder someone in cold blood. Bless her poor soul.”

  Rosalee would not relent. “What if she really did have a girl and they took her away from Pearl and put her up for adoption. That could be me.”

  “Rosalee, I wish you would give it up.” Emma's face began to turn red and her voice cracked with anger. “You don't look a bit like Pearl. And if John Mobley was your twin brother, you'd think you two would bear some sort of resemblance. I just don't know why you keep at it except you want to hurt me. I told you, your mother was some Indian woman who brought you here and dumped you. I have told you over and over that I took you in out of the goodness of my heart. I don't know what else you want to hear.”

  Rosalee held up her arm. “Do these freckles look like they belong on a Cherokee, Mother?”

  Emma looked as if she wanted to spit, shrugged her shoulders, and looked away.

  “And I always thought I got them from you,” added Rosalee.

  Sadie tried to defuse the conversation. “Well, for starters, you can't always tell by looking at someone whether they are Cherokee or not. Maybe you got those freckles from your daddy.”

  “That would be hard to tell, wouldn't it?” Rosalee snapped. “Especially since I don't know who my daddy was, either. I'm going to ask John Mobley. Surely he knows whether he had a sister or not.”

  “You better be careful, Rosalee,” warned Emma. “You never know what you might get into with that hoodlum.”

  Sadie ignored Emma and fished in her purse for her new phone. She turned it on, listened for a dial tone, then dialed Charlie's number from memory, not completely sure whether it was correct. A computer-generated recording came on announcing “the person she was trying to reach was unavailable.” She closed the phone and dropped it back into her purse. “Oh, by the way, Emma, here is my new cell phone number in case you need it.” Sadie wrote on a napkin, handed it to Emma, and turned her attention to Rosalee. “Do you want me to go with you to see John Mobley? He's probably not as bad as everyone makes him out to be.”

  “What difference would it make anyway?” snapped Emma. “Pearl's dead.” She snatched the napkin and stormed into the kitchen.

  Sadie and Rosalee watched Emma's retreat. “You have to realize, Rosalee,” said Sadie, “this is hard for your mother.”

  “Whatever, I don't really care.” Rosalee shrugged and then looked straight at Sadie. “You know, people like you never see the real Emmalee Singer. You only see what she wants you to see.”

  Sadie ignored Rosalee's last remark. “If you'd like,” continued Sadie, “I'll call Lance Smith and have him go with us.”

  “Oh.” Rosalee frowned. “I heard he got hurt or something.”

  “Lance?”

  “The police officer, right?”

  “Oh, no,” gasped Sadie, suddenly realizing why Charlie had called. “Did Charlie leave a number?”

  “He said you'd have it.”

  Sadie hurried to the wall phone and quickly called the police station. Maggie answered on the second ring.

  “Maggie, can you ask Lance to call me?”

  The line went quiet before Maggie replied. “Sadie, Lance got shot during a drug raid last night out by the state line.”

  Sadie's knees almost buckled and her voice froze.

  “He's out of danger,” Maggie rushed to clarify. “They took him to Fayetteville by Life Flight. He's in Intensive Care.”

  “Fayetteville, Arkansas?”

  “It was the closest hospital. I guess he lost a lot of blood.”

  “Oh.” Sadie's head reeled. “Thanks, Maggie.” Sadie dropped the phone and ran toward her Explorer as fast as her injured leg would go.

  26

  Sadie decided the quickest way to get to Fayetteville was to cut over to Highway 10 and go north. When she hit the Cherokee Turnpike, she raced east toward Siloam Springs, a small town that straddled the state line between Oklahoma and Arkansas. As she passed the Cherokee Casino, her steady pace slowed to a crawl as every stoplight turned red at her approach. Then an alarming smoky steam began to seep from under the front of her car. She quickly pulled into the first parking lot she could find. It belonged to Mama's Chicken House.

  She eased into the last empty space and killed the engine. As she pulled the hood-release lever and got out to inspect the problem, a middle-aged man and two young boys came out of the restaurant. The man hurried to help her, waving his arms. “Stand back,” he cautioned. “You'll get burned.”

  Sadie heeded the man's warning and helplessly watched as a puddle of green liquid began to form on the asphalt at her feet. After a few moments, the hissing slowed and the man and the oldest boy together pushed up the hood, releasing a huge hot cloud. “I'll bet it's your water hose,” said the oldest boy. His younger brother inched closer to get a better view.

  “Oh, I don't have time for this.” Sadie limped in a small circle. “Besides, this is a new car. It can't have a bad water hose.”

  The man pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, wiped his hands, and cautiously craned his neck for a better view. “Wait here,” he commanded, and jogged to a nearby truck where he dug under the seat, then returned with a fistful of tools, a roll of silver duct tape, and a red oil rag. His head disappeared under the hood and Sadie could hear him talking to his sons.

  “Wow, look at that,” remarked one of the boys.

  All Sadie could see were elbows and bottoms as the trio worked on her car. She realized her cell phone was ringing. She rushed to her purse, dug it out, and answered. It was Charlie McCord.

  “Charlie, I've been trying to call you. What happened? How's Lance?”

  “Well, we got into a little shoot-em-up. But it looks like he's going to be all right. He's asleep right now and I'm on my way out to get a bite to eat. Thought I'd try to call you again since they won't let me use my cell phone in the hospital. It interferes with the heart monitors or something. Anyway, some lady at your café gave me your number. She said you'd already found out about Lance and took off. Where are you?”

  “Right now I'm standing in the parking lot of Mama's Chicken House in Siloam Springs, Arkansas, with a broken water hose.”

  About that time, the man backed away from Sadie's vehicle. “It looks like your hose might have been cut.”

  “Who's that?” asked Charlie.

  “A man and his two boys stopped to help me. He thinks my radiator hose was cut. I've got to go, Charlie. I've got to get this car somewhere to be worked on.”

  “Where'd you say you were?” asked Charlie.

  “Mama's Chicken House in Siloam Springs,” she repeated.

  “Stay put. I'm only thirty miles away. I'll be right there.”

  The younger boy had lost interest in Sadie's ailing vehicle, but the older boy and his father finished wrapping tape around the leaking hose and added a liter of water one of the boys had retrieved from their truck. Sadie snapped the phone shut, shoved it into her pants pocket, and tried to see what the two were doing.

  “Are you sure it was cut?”

  “Pretty sure.” The man wiped his hands on the oil rag and nodded to his son to close the hood. “I guess it could have been a defective hose, but it would definitely have caused a lot more trouble if you hadn't pulled over when you did. I noticed your Cherokee Nation license plate. You live around here?”

  “No. I'm from Liberty, just a few miles north of Tahlequah, going to Fayetteville.”

  “Well, we wrapped it up best we could, but I wouldn't drive it that far.” He pointed with his head. “You might get some help at the Ford dealership down the street. But I doubt the service department is open on Saturday afternoon. Then there's Wal-Mart about a block down. They can probably put on a new hose for you.” The man reached into his back pocket, extracted his billfold, and pulled out a business card. “If you want to rent a car ’til it's fixed, we can certainly help you out with that, too.” He pointed across the street, th
en handed Sadie his card. “That's us over there.”

  Sadie inspected the card. Littledave's Used Cars and Rentals. “Thanks,” she said. “It was awfully nice of you and your boys to stop and help me. I'm Sadie Walela.”

  “Matthew Littledave.” He nodded at the boys. “This is Matt Jr., and this is Mark.” Each young boy shyly followed their father's example and shook Sadie's hand. Sadie noticed the permanent stain of motor oil under the fingernails of all three.

  “Can I pay you for your trouble?” she asked.

  “No, ma'am. We kind of like tinkering on cars. Don't we, boys?” He smiled, ruffled the younger boy's straight black hair, then stooped to pick up the roll of tape.

  “Well, if you're ever in Liberty,” she said, “stop by the American Café and I'll buy you lunch.”

  “That's two restaurants we're going to have try out.” A curious look came over the man's face. “A woman rented a car from me a little while back. She invited us to her place, too. Her name was—” He stopped and rubbed his forehead with his free hand. “Mrs. Ray, I think. Said she owned the Liberty Diner.”

  “Oh, Goldie.” Sadie's voice dropped. “Goldie Ray used to own the café, she…uh, it's the same place, just a new name.”

  “Well, we'll try to drop by next time we're down that way. Are you sure you don't want us to stay until your friend gets here?”

  “No need. I'll be fine. Thanks.”

  “You take care then,” he said. Sadie nodded and the three piled into their truck and drove into the traffic.

  Sadie climbed into her vehicle to wait for Charlie and stared into space, thinking about her water hose. First the vault incident and now this. Why would someone want to do her harm? She mentally moved down the list of people she had met in Liberty. The only person she could think of who might hold a grudge against her was Polly Gibson. But sabotaging a vehicle didn't seem to fit her personality. Polly might give someone a tongue-lashing behind their back, but Sadie didn't think the former bank teller had the fortitude to cause physical harm to anyone.

  She squirmed in her seat and shifted her attention to Matthew Littledave's car lot. A row of vehicles sat lined up in front of a small shack, their windows painted with various messages—the most frequently used phrase seemed to be “$35 weekly.” A banner above the office door read “Our cars might look bad, but they run good.” Sadie smiled. Only in small-town America.

  In less than thirty-five minutes, Charlie McCord arrived and followed Sadie to the Wal-Mart Super Center where she made arrangements with a middle-aged man in the automotive department to repair her car.

  “Can you keep the old hose for us?” requested Charlie.

  The man nodded.

  “We'll be across the street at Lupe's Mexican Restaurant,” said Sadie as she penciled her cell phone number on the form.

  The man nodded again. “Give us about an hour,” he said, then took her keys and disappeared into the noisy work area.

  Sadie and Charlie got into his truck and the two rode across the highway to the restaurant and settled into a corner booth. Sadie pulled up a chair and propped up her foot to give her sore knee a rest.

  “Lance told me what happened to you at the bank. Have you figured out who pushed you in the vault yet?”

  “No,” she said, dropping her menu back onto the table. “But they're going to be sorry when I do.”

  Charlie ordered the combination plate and Sadie opted for one taco, not because she was hungry but so Charlie wouldn't have to eat alone.

  She munched on tortilla chips and listened in amazement as Charlie recounted the prior evening's events—how he and Lance had served as backup for the sheriff when they made the raid on the meth house, including every detail, even the presence of the white-tailed deer sporting a red collar.

  “Lance said he'd had a run-in with the girl before. She and her boyfriend were growing marijuana somewhere. I couldn't understand all of what he was trying to say. Something about an ambush.”

  “Oh, my gosh, Charlie. You mean the girl we ran into in Kenwood was the same one who shot Lance?”

  “You know about it?”

  “I was there. She threw a rock and hit Lance in the head. I think her name was Gertie.”

  “A rock?”

  “I thought it was funny at the time. But it doesn't seem so funny now.”

  “Was there someone with her?”

  “Yeah, but he got away. Lance warned her to stay away from him.”

  “I bet he's the one that got away last night. What was his name?”

  “Gosh, Charlie. I don't remember. Campbell, I think. Gertie said he lived on the Old School Road, east of Kenwood.”

  “Kenwood? That's in Delaware County. What was Lance doing up there?”

  “Doing a favor for a friend, I think. The kids were on his land, so we rode out on horses one Sunday morning to have a look.”

  “Hmmm. If it's the same Campbell I know, he's been in trouble before.”

  Their food arrived and the conversation ceased. Sadie watched Charlie eat as if he hadn't eaten in a week.

  “So, you've been with Lance all night?” she asked as she nibbled at the edge of her taco.

  Charlie nodded. “I rode with him in the helicopter and stayed until they took him into surgery. One of the deputies helped me shuffle vehicles, then I drove Lance's truck home and changed clothes. I was covered in blood.”

  Sadie replaced the taco on her plate, wiped the edge of her mouth with her napkin, and slowly pushed the plate to the side.

  “Then I went back this morning,” continued Charlie, “so someone would be there when he came to. Lance never talks about his relatives, so I don't know if he has any around here or not. Do you know?”

  Sadie shook her head. “What happened to Gertie and her kid?”

  Charlie shoved a heaping fork of cheese enchilada into his mouth. “The girl didn't make it. Died at the scene. One of the deputies took the kid and turned him over to someone who handles that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, no.” Sadie let out a long breath.

  “I contacted the Liberty P.D. last night and George Stump showed up at the hospital right before I left to go home.” Charlie grinned. “He's a different sort of fellow, isn't he?” He continued before Sadie had time to comment. “Anyway, I tried to call you this morning—” Charlie realized Sadie had stopped eating. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ruin your lunch.”

  “That's okay. I wasn't really hungry.”

  “Don't you worry about Lance, now. He'll be all right.” Charlie continued to eat, stirring his refried beans and Spanish rice together on one end of his plate with his fork before taking a bite. “How is the café business, anyway?”

  “It's an adventure. Harder than I thought it would be. The former owner's sister and niece have been a lot of help.”

  “That's interesting. Whatever happened on that case? Lance was telling me the accused committed suicide in jail. Is that right?”

  “Yes. Her name was Pearl Mobley.”

  “I guess the jury's still out on whether or not she was the real killer.” Charlie spread butter across a flour tortilla, rolled it up, dipped it in salsa, and took a bite.

  “Oh, really?” Sadie didn't sound surprised.

  “Yeah, I understand the lab said the shotgun shell at the scene didn't match the gun of the accused.” Charlie took one last bite, stopped eating as if he had suddenly reached the saturation point, and pushed his plate into the middle of the table. “Speaking of shotgun shells…” He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out an empty red cartridge, and placed it on the edge of the table. “I saved this for Lance in case he wanted a souvenir.”

  “This is the shell from last night?”

  “Yep, that's the one she almost got him with.”

  Sadie picked it up and turned it over in her hand. “I didn't know you could match a shotgun shell back to a specific gun. How can you tell?”

  Charlie picked up the shell and pointed to the indentation on the end of
the cartridge. “This is where the firing pin struck it.”

  “You mean you can tell from this little bitty spot?”

  “The lab can match it to a firing pin if they've got the gun.”

  “Do you think this one might match the gun that killed Goldie?”

  “Highly unlikely.”

  “Why?”

  “Just is.”

  “Could you test it to make sure?”

  “Have to send it to the OSBI lab in Oklahoma City.”

  “But you could do that, right?” Sadie placed the cartridge back on the table and Charlie put it back in his pocket. About that time her phone rang. Her car was ready. Charlie took care of the ticket, and the two climbed back into his truck and returned to Wal-Mart.

  Sadie paid the man in the automotive department and carried the severed water hose back to Charlie's vehicle. “What do you think?” she said. “Does it look like it was cut?”

  Charlie peeled back the well-secured duct tape. “It's really hard to tell with all this tape on here, Sadie, but when a water hose bursts, it leaves a jagged break. This one looks pretty clean. Mind if I keep it?”

  “Be my guest,” she said. “Let's go check on Lance.”

  Sadie got into her newly repaired vehicle and followed Charlie to the Fayetteville hospital. When they arrived, he led her to a waiting room on the third floor set aside for families of surgery patients. Sadie waited while Charlie approached the nurse's station, pulled his badge out of his pocket, and inquired about Lance. He was doing fine, the nurse assured Charlie, but he could have visitors for only a few minutes at a time until he was moved to a private room.

  Charlie thanked the nurse, and he and Sadie migrated into the empty waiting room. They both chose vinyl chairs facing a small television mounted on the opposite wall. They stared at the silent screen, reading the captions that appeared below the attractive woman newscaster.

  Charlie sat on the edge of his seat, resting his elbows on his knees. “If I'd been a little quicker,” he said, “Lance wouldn't be in this predicament. Maybe I've lost my edge.”