Crouched down there, in the mud, she listened to the car move closer until it was right next to her, stopping just short of the bush. The hum of the electric car window echoed in the misty air.
“Sonja?” the sheriff’s voice boomed.
Caught red-handed, the she sighed and stood up from her hiding place. “Sheriff?” she muttered torpidly.
“Why are you hiding in the bush?”
Embarrassed and brushing off her dirty jeans, she stepped out from behind the bush. “I thought I dropped something,” she lied.
“Oh, I see,” the sheriff responded knowingly, not missing a beat. He leveled his eyes on her, his stare barreling through her.
Sonja, now positive that she was caught, blurted out, “It’s not what you think.”
The sheriff sighed. “It’s exactly what I think, Sonja,” he responded somewhat mournfully.
Looking down at her feet, the amateur sleuth awaited the worst scolding she had ever received from an officer of the law—and she knew she deserved it too. She had been impulsive and immature, purposefully leaping ahead of an officer in an investigation, potentially withholding evidence.
These were all serious offenses.
“Unfortunately, Sonja, I don’t have the time to deal with this right now,” he sighed, a tinge of redness filling his cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Sheriff.”
“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t call me Sheriff.”
Sonja felt sick to her stomach, and an unbalanced feeling seemed to set in at her core. What was she doing? She had spent the entire day isolating herself and driving away her friends and family alike. “Sorry, Frank” she whispered, not sure what to say next.
Sighing, he shrugged his shoulders. “No, I’m sorry,” he responded sincerely. “Look, if you weren’t interested in going on a date with me, that’s fine, but next time please just tell me you aren’t interested instead of running off and hiding. Okay?” He nodded. Putting the car back into drive, he started to pull away. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
Standing there with her shoulders dropped and her head low, Sonja watched the officer drive off down the road, realizing how foolish she had been all day. He didn’t suspect her of snooping at all. No, he was just hurt by her actions—jilted in his pursuits of a woman he thought he had a connection with.
Alison had been right all along. Sheriff Thompson—Frank—had seen their relationship as something more, and had hoped today was his day to finally ask her out to coffee.
Most likely, Sonja deduced, he had hoped his station as a nominee for the Town Father award might be initiative enough for the Sonja to agree to a date. If he had won, that would have been even better for him.
However, when he didn’t win the award and then witnessed Benjamin next to Sonja, Frank probably snapped a little. It explained his brief unprofessional moment in the woods.
For the first time in a long time, Sonja felt sick with anxiety and worry. Somehow, she needed to fix things—with her mother, with Benjamin—and apologize to the sheriff for her own unprofessional behavior.
For the first time, Sonja let the current murder case drop from her mind and instead headed home to begin making retribution.
* * *
Unfortunately, her determination to walk home and patch things up with her mother, her first and likely easiest step in retribution, was interrupted when she spotted the building where the Veteran’s Community Center was housed.
The sandstone façade, along with the stereotypical white pillars indicated the building had once been a government office of some sort—maybe even a courthouse, but Sonja was sure that as the town had expanded they had decided to use the older building as a place for vets to come together.
Walking up the stone steps, Sonja headed through the spinning glass door and into the lobby. On the inside, the building was beautiful. A bronze statue of justice, with her typical equally balanced scales, stood in the center of the lobby just before a staircase leading up to a balcony of offices. She looked almost newly polished, a beautiful pinnacle for the room—and a fitting reminder that these men deserved at least some sort of small retribution for their years of service. To the right was a large double doorway which led into the sitting room. To the right was a large curved desk built into the structure of the building. An elderly gentleman, looking sharp as a tack in his uniform despite having a little bit of a belly, sat staring at her.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Sonja responded. “I’m a friend of the Bidwell’s.”
“Oh, I see,” the man responded mournfully, clasping his hands over his belly. “It is a real tragedy to lose Lincoln today.”
Nodding in agreement, Sonja continued with her inquisition. “I was just trying to collect some stories about Lincoln, see if I could learn more about him and the family, maybe even help his son write the obituary.”
“Very good,” the man confirmed. “I would love to see a well-written obituary—hopefully, a large one—to honor his service to this town and the country.”
“Is there anyone specific I should talk to. An old war buddy, someone he was potentially close friends with?”
“Yes, actually,” the man leaned in, his pudgy belly pressing against the front of the desk. “You’ll want to talk to Carl.”
“Carl?” Sonja confirmed.
“Carl Perkins is his name. One of our gentlemen who is here almost every day.”
“He was friends with Lincoln?”
The elderly gentlemen laughed heartily. “I’d say that’s an understatement. Carl and Lincoln were inseparable, as far as anyone here could tell. Lincoln was here every day to spend time with his old friend, to play chess, facilitate a round of poker, get Carl food and drink, or even just to sit and talk about the good ol’ days.”
“Sounds perfect,” Sonja admitted. “Is he here now?” she asked, jabbing a thumb back toward the sitting room.
“Sure is.”
“Can you direct me to him?”
“Sure thing. He usually sits in the large cushion chair in the very back corner of the room. You can’t miss him—he’s the only one who’s missing his left leg.”
CHAPTER 11
When she stepped into the room, she was slightly overwhelmed by the presence of all the men and women who had worked so hard, and sacrificed so much, to defend their country. Sonja could only barely imagine what things some of them had seen.
The room was decorated in deep reds and browns with dark wooden furniture—giving the community room a slightly rustic feeling. Pictures of scenic landscapes, mountains, and buildings only added to the ambiance.
If it had only been a few years earlier, Sonja could even imagine the men sitting around and smoking rich smelling cigars—the room billowing with its own cloud of smoke.
In one part the community center felt like a gentlemen’s club, a place for those who had earned the honor to come and kick back and get some much-deserved recognition. Another part of the community center, however, felt more like a group therapy session—just with slightly less structure.
In fact, she was sure that group therapy was likely offered—especially for military men who had recently just returned from Afghanistan or Iraq.
Scanning the room, the eager sleuth spotted the man, the one missing one of his legs, sitting in the back window near a tall window. A wheelchair sat nearby, folded up and neatly placed behind a potted tree.
The gentlemen, wearing a comfortable looking pair of jeans—folded up at the ends—and a green polo stared out the window longingly. Walking across the room, Sonja introduced herself. “Carl? Hello, my name is Sonja Reed.”
The man slowly looked away from the window and up into the woman’s eyes.
“I’m a friend of the Bidwell’s and I was wondering if you would be willing to spend a few minutes talking with me?”
The man nodded, a solemn look on his face. Sonja was sure this man must be broken up about the loss of his dear friend and qu
estioned whether or not sitting and talking with him now, on the same day as the murder, was such a good idea.
She hesitated, but the man looked up into her eyes and smiled. “Aren’t you going to sit down? I’m sure it’s much more comfortable than just standing there.”
“Thanks,” she replied, pulling over a simple wooden chair and taking a seat.
In part, Sonja’s first urge was to ask the man about his legs. How had it happened? Was it traumatic? However, she knew better and bit her tongue. Instead, she simply went right into the questions about Lincoln.
“I’m a friend of Shamus, you see. So, I was hoping to help him collect a few stories about his father.”
“Oh?” The gentlemen asked. “Why didn’t he come along as well?”
Biting her lower lip, Sonja tried to come up with a good reason. “Well, you see, he has to take care of a few things with the police today. So, he sent me along on my own.”
It wasn’t a total lie. After all, Sheriff Thompson had been making his way to Shamus’ house a little while earlier. Most likely, he was a prime suspect for the murder—considering the argument he had with his father and then his absence afterward, meaning he would likely be tied up for at least a couple of hours, if not more.
“I see,” the man nodded.
“The gentleman at the front desk tells me you and Mr. Bidwell were close friends?”
Carl half nodded, moving his head in an uncommitted manner. “I suppose you could say that,” he said firmly.
Something about Carl’s tone and delivery seemed off, igniting a spark of curiosity and suspicion inside Sonja. Raising one eyebrow, Sonja inquisitively pushed the subject further. “I don’t mean to offend Mr. Perkins, but I can’t help but ask—did you and Lincoln have a falling out of sorts?”
Carl smiled a toothy smile, laughing quietly to himself—his nose whistling a little as he did. “You are an observant girl, aren’t you?”
Sonja pursed her lips. “I suppose I am.”
“Well, two can play at that game,” a smear of pride echoed across his eyes, illuminated by his smile. Sonja felt a shiver run through her body, suddenly creeped out by this man who—just moments ago—seemed nothing more than a sweet old veteran.
“What do you mean?” She asked.
“I know you’re not here to collect stories for ‘your friend’ Shamus,” Carl stated knowingly, smugly.
“We are friends,” Sonja tried to reason, knowing her argument was dying before her.
“Don’t push it, girlie,” the old man insisted. “Shamus didn’t have friends. That’s the way Lincoln liked it.”
Sonja’s face became a wash of confusion. Her plan for a simple cut and dry interview with an old friend of the murder victim had turned on its head. “Excuse me?”
“Lincoln, he made sure to keep his son at bay as much as possible, the same way he kept me at bay.”
Sonja leaned back in the chair, the old wood squeaking under her weight. “Alright, I’ll come clean—if you do.”
He smiled wickedly. “It’s no skin off my nose.”
“Okay then. I am Sonja Reed, but I’m not a friend of the Bidwell family. More of a passing acquaintance than anything else.”
Carl nodded. “I see.”
“I was the one who found Lincoln’s body today.”
“Oh?” The man leaned in, clearly interested for the first time. “I’m sure that was unpleasant.”
Sonja sighed. “It wasn’t my first.” She didn’t bother mentioning how she’d only seen her first dead body a few months earlier—in the freezer of her own diner.
“Go on.”
“After finding the body, I became interested in the murder case. So, I took it upon myself to do some investigating.”
The man leaned back in the chair. “I see. So, you’re one of those nosy types?”
Gritting her teeth, Sonja bit her tongue to keep from making a snide comment. “I suppose you could say that,” she admitted begrudgingly. “Your turn,” Sonja instructed. “What’s up with you and Lincoln?”
Carl lifted a finger, pointing at her. “First of all,” the man answered. “Lincoln and I were friends, just not buddy, buddy the way everyone around here seems to think.”
“Why is that?”
“See, before the both of us shipped off to ‘Nam, we were the best of friends. We grew up together, and then we were both drafted at the same time. Me, I was excited to get out of this small town. Fighting seemed to be in my blood. But Lincoln? Lincoln had a pregnant wife, a beautiful little thing, so he was less than excited about heading out.”
“I can see why,” Sonja admitted.
“Well, it was in ‘Nam when things changed.”
“How so?”
Carl made his whistle ridden laugh again. “Hold your horses and let me tell the story.”
Leaning back, Sonja sighed and listened.
“Lincoln was the biggest coward I had ever met. At first, I thought it was a one-time thing—him running off or hiding when there was any kind of danger or gunfire—but it started happening every time we encountered the enemy.”
This was definitely new news. One of the reasons Lincoln was so respected in the community was because of his bravery during the war. “He ran from every fight?”
“Can’t rightly blame him,” he admitted. “It was a mess down there—just sick. Terrible conditions, men dying almost every day.”
“So what happened?” Sonja pushed.
“Well, for a while I took it upon myself to protect him, to make sure he was okay—he was my best friend, after all—but he became a danger to the rest of us. Men died, potentially because he wasn’t there to back us up.”
Glancing down at Carl’s leg, Sonja wondered if that injury too happened as a result of Lincoln’s cowardice.
Carl smiled that toothy smile again. “I know what you’re thinking,” he admitted. “And you’re right.” He reached down and patted his left leg. “This is thanks to Lincoln as well.”
“That’s horrible,” Sonja whispered.
“Oh, don’t start in with the pity,” he responded with a wave of his hand. “I’ve learned to get around quite well. When I’m not using the chair,” he jabbed a finger at the wheelchair in the corner, “I’m actually fairly skilled at using my crutches.”
“But you and Lincoln remained friends, even up until today?”
“I guess that depends,” he affirmed.
“Depends on what?” Sonja asked.
“On your definition of friendship. I did enjoy my time with him through the years. He made for good company, but it can be hard to get over something like this.” He tapped the stump of his leg.
“The only reason he wasn’t tried in a military court for endangerment of his fellow officers was because I convinced the commanding officer to let him off, that the others dying was punishment enough already. Instead, he was scheduled to be shipped off to food services—and working in some hot tent every day, stuck in one place, had its own punishments. It gave him time to sit and think about what he did.”
“Like time out for a child?” Sonja asked, somewhat sarcastically.
“When you act like a child you get treated like one. We all were boys, but forced to fight like men. Lincoln just never caught up to the rest of us.” He nodded. “Anyway, it was the day before he was supposed to leave the unit that I lost my leg.”
For the first time since the conversation had begun, the amateur sleuth saw a hint of discomfort on the man’s face. He paused and a line of sweat began to build upon his brow.
“They were everywhere. It seemed like none of us would ever make it out alive—not that time.” He paused, looking Sonja directly in the eye for the first time. “If ever I needed him, if ever Lincoln needed to have my back, it was then.”
Sonja already knew what was coming, but it didn’t make it any less painful.
“He took off, hid in a foxhole.”
Sonja looked down, knowing that Carl didn’t need to go into furt
her detail for her to understand what happened.
“The next day, we both left on the chopper. I was taken to medical, his orders were changed and he went home with a dishonorable discharge.”
Sonja remained quiet, solemn, reverent almost.
“After all I did for him,” Carl muttered. “After I protected him, allowed him to run, allowed him to hide. After I talked the commanding officer out of pressing charges of abandonment and treason against him,” he touched his stump, “this is how he repaid me.”
“So why stay friends?” Sonja asked.
“Well, he got home before I did, see? That gave him a chance to cover up his dishonorable release.”
“He lied,” Sonja affirmed.
Carl nodded. “He told stories of his own bravery, of how he saved whole platoons of men.”
The amateur sleuth couldn’t believe it. Her face was a wash of both surprise and confusion. The man who the town praised as a war hero was really a fake and a fraud.
“By the time I got home no one had any praise left for me, only pity.”
“Why didn’t you tell everyone the truth when you got back?”
“They were all enamored with him. I’m not so sure anyone would have believed me. That’s small town politics for ya’.”
“So you just stayed quiet?” Sonja asked, feeling pain for this man while knowing pity was exactly the opposite of what he wanted.
“When I got home, Lincoln cut me a deal.”
Sonja raised an eyebrow.
“He had already dug himself into a deep hole, worried that if anyone found out the truth he’d be shunned—potentially driven from town. So when I came home, he begged me not to say anything. He promised he’d spend every day with me, tending to my needs, getting me whatever I needed. He even offered me money.”
“Did you take it?”
“Your darn right I did,” he stated adamantly. “He said it was the least he could do and I wasn’t about to turn down that cash.”
“I understand,” Sonja nodded.
“He and I spent most of every day together. Besides me and the other Vets, Lincoln barley interacted with anyone.”
“And Shamus?”
The Wayward Waffle: Book 4 in The Diner of the Dead Series Page 8