by Joseph Souza
He shrugs and sips his coffee. “An extremely handsome one.”
“Modesty alone won’t solve these murders.”
“Maybe her cousin was partying too, and maybe her parents found out about it and felt that she’d somehow disrespected them. Did you ever consider that?”
“Of course I have. Anything’s possible.”
“As I’ve told you, getting these Afghanis to talk has proved extremely difficult.” He stands to leave. “Thanks for the coffee. It was delicious as usual.”
“Don’t expect it on a regular basis. I’m not going to be around forever.”
“None of us gets out of here alive,” he says. “How about joining me for dinner tonight?”
“What’s the occasion?”
“I’ll indulge the detective in you. Tickle your brain some more, Sherlock. That way we can talk in greater detail.”
“Sure. What time?”
“How about around seven tonight?”
“That’ll work. I won’t get out of here, anyway, until after the mad lunch rush.”
He laughs. “What mad rush?”
“The rush I’m hoping my presence here will soon create.”
“Love the confidence, Chef.”
“Confidence is my middle name.”
“This town could really use a talented chef like you. You should seriously consider relocating here and doing it full time.”
“I’m sure there are plenty of cooks in Fawn Grove who could turn this place around. Diner fare isn’t exactly my calling.”
“If that’s true, then I’d certainly love to meet these other chefs.” His radio blurts. “Duty calls. I’ll pick you up at seven?”
“Seven it is,” I say, as I head back to the kitchen.
I realize I’ll need to play along with him a bit longer. Not that I particularly minded having dinner with him the other night, despite the atrocious meal served to us. Being with him is not as unpleasant as I often lead myself to believe. It’s actually nice to hang out with a familiar face in this shitty town. Someone who pays attention to me and treats me like a lady. I have to admit, the years have been good to him, and he certainly appears to have mellowed out in his old age. He’s one of the few people in town who genuinely seems to enjoy my company. Also, it gives me a distinct thrill to go out with him, knowing he has no idea who I am. But the biggest reason to stay friends with him is the privileged access he affords me to these investigations.
* * *
I can’t help myself when it comes to this business. Despite my better judgment, I devise a menu ten times more ambitious than what’s needed. The specials of the day I post on a discarded whiteboard that I find in the back. There’s five types of omelettes, as well as buckwheat pancakes and French toast battered in Corn Flakes, filled with sweetened cream cheese and preserves and then pressed together like a sandwich. But then the regulars come in and order the same boring shit. Why won’t these people step out of their comfort zone and try something different?
It’s slow during breakfast service, and the pace makes me jittery. Thank God it’s Stef’s morning off and she’s not here to insult and mock me. I’m used to cooking five dishes at once while people are cussing me out at the top of their lungs. To keep from being bored, I find myself working a crossword puzzle between orders. Anything to stay busy and keep my mind from reminding me how badly I’m failing here. I bake a blueberry pie for lunch and prepare a dozen fresh ground lamb patties for burgers. By the time Yanni comes in just before noon, I can’t wait to get the hell out of here. I rip off my apron as he counts what little money sits in the till. I keep telling myself that it’s not my fault and that it’s going to take a small miracle to revive The Galaxy. But the pall of failure definitely hangs over me.
“I thought you were going to turn this place around?” Yanni snaps.
“Athens wasn’t built in a day.”
“Maybe you’re not as good as you think you are.”
“Oh, I’m pretty damn good all right, but I’m not superwoman.”
“Bah! You’re all talk,” he says, disappearing into the kitchen.
Yanni expects instantaneous results on a pauper’s budget. It’s as if my sudden presence here is supposed to make customers magically appear. Wolfgang Puck and Thomas Keller working in unison couldn’t resurrect this shithole under his thumb. Returning this diner to its former glory will be an uphill battle. The Galaxy’s good name has been dragged through the mud for so long now that it may never fully recover.
Yanni shouts at me in Greek as I gather up my knives and place them gently into their respective pouches. Why do I even waste my time here when there are two unsolved murders in town? When I need to work on my own myriad issues? When there’s hundreds of restaurant owners back in New York who’d love to have a battle-tested chef like me running their kitchen? Do I stay because Nadia pleaded with me to help her father? Maybe. She has no idea how badly this place is being run. Or what it will take to restore it. The more I try to make a difference here, the more futile my efforts seem.
I toss on my sweater and head out to the dining room, ignoring Yanni’s running stream of complaints. Billie leans against the counter wearing a resigned expression on her haggard face, which reveals years of hard living despite the fact that we’re roughly the same age. I notice the homemade tattoos scrawled over her skinny arms and hands. To lose this crappy job would cause her serious hardship. Jobs are scarce in this town, even pathetic jobs like this. It’s the reason Yanni gets away with being such an asshole to her and everyone else. His family is depending on him and he’s letting them all down.
I slam the diner door shut, then jump in my truck and head toward the center of town, where the memorial is to be held. Parking is at a premium today because of this rally. I find a space three blocks from the center of town and then hobble past all the abandoned storefronts and weedy lots. Standing on my feet all morning has taken a toll on my stumps, especially since I haven’t worked a regular shift in over a month.
A large crowd stands in front of city hall. Growing up in Fawn Grove, I can understand the pain and suffering these citizens are experiencing. Change in small towns like this is often difficult to swallow, especially for a proud people who remember a Fawn Grove from better times.
Then I see a large group of Afghanis gathered, and it breaks my heart. They’ve come to pay their respects and show solidarity with the townspeople. It takes a lot of courage and heart for them to come here, and I find myself moved to tears by this display of compassion.
The first speaker heads up to the podium, then begins to speak about the dead boy. Cops appear everywhere, keeping order in case things get out of hand. It’s not just Fawn Grove cops, either, but officers from nearby towns. Dalton stands at parade rest just offstage, dressed in his crisp blues, his eyes scanning the crowd for any potential troublemakers. Cheers go up as the woman at the podium introduces the next two speakers. A man wearing a baseball cap walks up to the podium, holding the hand of a bleached blonde. It takes me a second to realize that these are the parents of the dead boy. Their eyes are red, and it’s obvious they’ve been grieving. The father, I recall, is a minister with anti-immigrant views. I wonder what he thinks of the Afghanis who’ve come here in support of them. The applause dies down as the woman speaks into the microphone, struggling to tell the crowd what a great kid her boy was.
I turn and head back. This is too painful to watch. A grief-stricken mother talking about her dead son reminds me too much of Jaxon. I make my way back to the truck, an emotional wreck, mascara running down my cheeks. All those years spent in New York and I can barely recall shedding a tear for anyone. Now, back in Fawn Grove, I seem to cry at the drop of a hat.
Emotion overwhelms me as I duck into a doorway. I wait for the wave of sadness to pass. Taking a few deep breaths, I try to compose myself. I think of poor Jaxon and the fact that I’ll never see him again. Not a day passes that I don’t think about that poor kid. My mother grieved for him as well.
She couldn’t understand why such a terrible thing happened to her own child. I miss my mother. Both of them are such an integral part of my life that it upsets me when I realize they’re gone forever.
Someone opens the door to the storefront, and I scamper onto the sidewalk. Once inside the truck, I have this sudden desire to pack all my bags and head back to Manhattan. Leave Fawn Grove before it destroys me for the last time.
* * *
I park across the street from Fawn Grove High. As soon as the school bell rings, I walk across the street to where the school buses are parked. Kids begin to pour out the doors and file past me. Four Muslim girls ramble down the path to their bus. I look for Nasreen but notice she’s not among them.
A large gang of townie kids pass me like a river of adolescents. I search around, but there’s no sign of her. Then I see two Afghani girls headed toward me. They’re talking and laughing like normal kids. It takes me a few seconds to realize that she is one of them. As she approaches the bus, she looks up and sees me standing in her path. Her smile quickly dissipates, and she looks nervous as I begin to edge in her direction.
“You’re a hard girl to track down.”
“I need to get on my bus.”
“We need to talk about your cousin.”
“I must get on my bus or it will leave without me.” Clutched to her chest is a rumpled copy of To Kill a Mockingbird.
“You should listen to what I have to say.”
She turns and tells her friend to save a seat for her.
“You need to stop harassing me, or I’ll go to the police.”
I laugh. “That’s hilarious, Nasreen. You won’t talk to the police about your dead cousin, but now you’re going to tell them that I’m harassing you?”
“Yes.” She glances around nervously.
“Maybe you could tell them how you were smoking weed and drinking alcohol out in the cornfield where the boy was murdered. Oh, and that you were not wearing your hijab. I take it your parents wouldn’t be too happy about that.”
“Why are you making up lies about me?” She looks scared.
“Really?” I laugh. “We both know it’s true.”
“Look, I beg you not to tell anyone about this. I’d be in big trouble if my parents knew.”
“Then talk to me.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Tell me what was going on with you and those other kids.”
She glances around before ripping a slip of paper out of her notebook. She pulls out a pen and scribbles something on the sheet. The bus driver honks his horn for her to get inside, and she turns to him and holds up a finger.
“What’s this?”
“Meet me here this afternoon at four. It’s dangerous for me to talk to you in public like this.”
“You’re certain you’ll meet me there?”
“Yes. Then I’ll tell you everything I know.”
She turns and sprints inside the bus without looking back. The doors wheeze and shut. The engine roars loudly in my ears. Nasreen stares down at me as the bus pulls away, fear evident in her eyes.
I stare at the piece of paper. She wants to meet me at Settlers Burial Ground inside Robinson Woods. I know that place all too well. As kids, we used to play along that well-worn path. There’s a smattering of old gravestones surrounded by a measly chain link.
Had I gone too far by coming here to speak with her? She’s only a kid. Meeting her in public might have put the girl’s life in jeopardy. The thought of her suffering the same fate as her cousin worries me, and now I wonder if I’ve made another bad decision. And yet I’m desperate for answers.
I turn to leave, and when I look up I see Brynn standing with a group of girls. Stefania is pointing at me and laughing. It’s obvious that Brynn’s embarrassed. They follow me as I make my way back to the pickup. Stefania lights a cigarette, and the pack of jackals follow, toward the lot where my truck is parked. Someone shouts something, and they all begin to laugh uncontrollably.
“Want a ride home, Brynn?” I say, quickly wishing I hadn’t.
“She doesn’t need a ride from you, Miss Fancy-Pants,” Stefania says. “She’s hanging out with her homeys.”
“I’m not talking to you, Stefania,” I say, which embarrasses her.
“Brynn doesn’t want to go anywhere with you. Why don’t you go back to where you came from? Busybodies like you don’t belong here in Fawn Grove,” Stefania says.
“What are you doing here, Lucy? Why are you embarrassing me in front of all my friends?” Brynn says, a look of horror over her face.
Her words sting me.
“I can’t believe you’d violate my privacy like this,” Brynn says. “You swore that you wouldn’t keep tabs on me.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“How can I ever trust you again? You lied to me.”
I jump in my truck and speed off, my feelings hurt. I think how embarrassed I’d have been if my mother showed up when I was hanging out with my friends. What right do I have to interfere in her life? And yet I can’t shake the humiliation of hearing those girls laugh at me. It made me feel as if I were back in high school all over again.
I park in the driveway, go inside the house, and limp past Russ. It’s good that he’s napping, because I don’t feel like dealing with him right now. I need to rest before I meet up with that girl. Maybe she’ll tell me something that’ll prove useful in solving these murders.
20
I PULL UP ALONGSIDE THE ROAD AND MAKE MY WAY DOWN TO THE ENTRANCE to Robinson Woods. It’s startling how many memories come rushing back as I approach it. I feel like a kid again, getting ready to run for hours on end, searching for frogs and playing tag and Relievio with my friends. But this time there’ll be no fun and games.
A sign at the entrance to the trail indicates that these woods are now part of a land trust and can’t be developed. I make my way past the sign and see the familiar rocks and trees that once framed our youthful activities. On one of these trunks I’d carved a heart with Nadia’s and my initials in it, but I’ll be damned if I could find it now. The deeper I travel into these woods, the more thankful I am that I put on my long sleeve cardigan sweater and knee-high leather boots with the steel toes. The terrain gets rockier, gnarled with tree roots and vines. For a normal thirty-three-year-old, walking along this trail would be of no consequence. But I’m not normal in any sense of the word.
Jaxon used to dart in and out of these woods, jumping off boulders and leaping over puddles of mud, running all day without losing his breath. I remember how he and his friends would pick up large branches and then engage in furious sword fights, pretending to slay dragons and evil demons until someone pretended to die.
The light nearly disappears on account of the canopy of leaves swaying gently above. The leaves are just starting to change color, and soon the purples and reds will dominate the landscape.
I’m sore and out of breath by the time I reach the dozen or so gravestones scattered between the trees. They’re flaked, thin wafers sticking up out of the ground at odd angles. Even after all these years they seem out of place in this wooded setting. I park myself on a large boulder and wait. In my pocket sits the trusty boning knife for good measure. Although its effectiveness is limited in many ways, I feel safer knowing it’s with me.
I’d forgotten how far into the trail these tombstones are located. The girl must really be frightened if she wants to meet me here, where no one will see or hear us. Maybe she really does know something about these murders, and maybe that information might break these cases wide open. The thought that I might be able to learn new facts about them gives me hope.
But a strange feeling comes over me after ten minutes pass. Is it intuition? A foreboding that I’m in imminent danger and was directed here for a distinct reason? I can’t seem to shrug it off. I stand, the pain in my lower legs leaving me momentarily immobile. In agony, I fall back on the boulder, my legs throbbing. This is the cruel joke my body someti
mes likes to play on me. In moments of extreme stress, a menacing phantom pain strikes capriciously and without reason.
The afternoon light begins to transition. It’s ten past the hour and there’s still no sign of her. Why has she stood me up like this? Did she have second thoughts? Did the idea of revealing certain truths about people in her community scare her off? I start to head back to the parking lot, my legs slow and lethargic, the pain fierce in my absent limbs.
But then I hear something and stop. Is it the wind? Or is someone following me? I grab the handle of the boning knife. Maybe I’m being paranoid. Ever since that threat was scrawled on my windshield, I’ve become more vigilant.
Was it a mistake coming here? I glance around as a gust of wind ruffles the leaves. About two hundred yards separates me from the entrance to the woods. I latch on to my knife. My head fills with conspiracies as I hobble along the bumpy terrain, mindful of the vague, lurking danger. All I want is to return home and climb back into bed where it’s safe and sound.
The opening of the trail appears off in the distance. Despite the intense pain in my lower legs, I improve to a steady clip, one step at a time. It’s about twenty feet to the parking lot when I hear someone call out. I turn to see if it’s Nasreen when something comes crashing down against my head. Everything begins to spin as I collapse to the ground. Someone grabs my wrists, and another person lifts me up by the heels of my boots. I’m vaguely aware of the throbbing in my head as they carry me away, my arms falling limp by my side. A whistling pierces my ears, and I can hear the crunch of twigs underfoot. Saliva dribbles down my chin. I gaze upward and see the kaleidoscopic treetops. I want to scream for help, but nothing comes out. My vision is blurred, as if I’m seeing things through a Coke bottle. Finally, they let go of me and I fall hard to the dirt. It’s the last thing I remember.
* * *
When I come to, all I can feel is my head pounding. My eyelids lie thick and heavy over my eyes. I try to move my arms and legs, but nothing happens. Oh my God! Am I paralyzed? I open my eyes and peer into the pitch blackness, panicking. A cool breeze chills my skin and fluffs my hair. For some reason, the insides of my upper arms itch like crazy.