Deep-Fried Homicide (The Laurel Falls Mysteries Book 1) (2 page)

“No kidding? You catch ’em?”

Rick shook his head and wandered toward the kitchen. “They were too far ahead of me and fast as heck.” He paused in the doorway, one hand braced against the door frame and the other in his pocket. “It’s the cops’ problem now. C’mon. Let’s get ready for the lunch rush.”

Laurel Falls was a small town; the typical seaside homage to times gone by. It had been founded some two hundred years ago by one Edwin A. Cooper. Cooper, as legend had it, was a sailing man. He ran all manner of goods up and down the coast in his small ship, occasionally running a few slaves or other elicit items. As it happened, Cooper ran afoul of the rockier portion of North Carolina’s coast and his boat went down with all hands; all hands except for Cooper, who was stranded the second he hauled himself onto said rocks. Whether shamed by his reckless sailing or to avoid paying for his lost cargo, Cooper decided to make a go of it on that barren bit of land. He salvaged and scavenged and eked out a life and spent the rest of his existence standing on the point of land nearest those fatal rocks, swinging his lantern, trying to spare other ships the same fate.

Ships came and went and pioneers arrived in straggling herds. Twenty years to the day after Cooper had landed there, the place officially became a town, the name borrowed from Cooper’s daughter, Laurel, who was still back in Boston with her mother. Twenty years after his death, the lighthouse was built on what had become Cooper’s Point. Though Cooper immortalized his daughter with the town’s name, he never left Laurel Falls and he never saw her again. The legend goes on to state that Cooper never gave up on his fellow sailors and that his ghost can still be seen standing on Cooper’s Point, the light waving back and forth in warning to hapless sailors. True or not, more than a few high school students recounted their visions of him every year and it was only a matter of time before one of the ghost-hunting shows did a special on him.

The town never grew beyond the status of small burg, though it was big enough to warrant a small mall and its own big box store. It sported a single business district, at the heart of which sat Rick’s. There were some eight restaurants in Laurel Falls, but Rick’s was the only locally owned and run restaurant for miles around. They did a brisk business at the lunch hour, being the only real restaurant in the commercial district and owing to the fact that Rick was the reigning king of down-home cooking.

At eleven-thirty, just like clockwork, the bank’s loan officer, Mr. James, walked in the door and took up his usual booth. Ten minutes behind him was Toby Gallows, the best of Laurel Falls’ three lawyers. He sat next to Mr. James, just as he had a thousand times, and proceeded to re-arrange every item within arm’s reach.

Rachel smiled and grabbed two menus, slid one before each man, and smiled again.

“Good afternoon, Mr. James.”

“Hello, Rachel. And how are you today?” His voice was soft, careful. He measured his words and gave them weight and authority.

“I’m quite well, thanks. And you?”

“Fine as frog’s hair,” he responded, thus completing their daily ritual.

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

“And you, Mr. Gallows?”

“Tea. No sugar. I’m told I have to cut back.”

Rachel passed him a knowing nod and a wink and went to fetch their drinks.

“Hey, babe!” came the call from the kitchen.

Rachel walked to the little window, stood on her toes to see through to her husband. “Yea, babe?”

“You know that meat we got on discount last week?”

“The meat that filled the freezer and made me put the
other
meat in the freezer at home?”

“Yea. I think it doesn’t have much life left. What do you say we have a meatloaf special tomorrow?”

Behind her, Macy gasped and started shaking her head. “Oh God! Not that!”

Rachel merely moaned, dropping her head to her chest and peering at Rick through her heavy lids. “Please, no.”

“Yea. You know they flock in for my meatloaf. We can use up the meat, make a hefty profit. Everybody wins!” His boyish smile broke through and his eyes sparkled.

“Everybody but us,” Macy snapped. “It’s the same every time. The place is packed. And while you reap the glory, I work my feet to nubs and Rachel’s hands are blistered for a week from washing dishes. Don’t do it, Rick. I beg you.”

“On the board, Macy. Put it on the board.”

She stared at him. If pressed, Rick would swear he could see her lip quiver, her brown eyes pool. “I’m begging you, Rick. Please don’t. Next to chili day, meatloaf is the worst.”

“Did somebody say chili?” Mr. James chimed in.

“There’s no chili, Mr. James,” Rachel said.

“Put it on the board, Macy.” Rick was steadfast, his mind made up. He was enjoying her pain.

With a heavy sigh and an exaggerated slump of her shoulders, Macy walked to the large chalkboard where they displayed their specials for the week. She took up the chalk, then cast a dramatically sorrowful look over her shoulder at Rick. He merely stabbed one finger in the direction of the board. Morosely, she obeyed, turning herself to the task of writing that one word which would make her legs ache for a week. The bell tinkled behind her and more people came in for their lunch. Slowly, each letter a study in agony, Macy wrote the word “meatloaf” on the board and stood up straight. A cheer rose behind her as the crowd in the restaurant read the board.

“Happy now?” she growled, placing the chalk in the little tray and stomping back to the counter.

“The customers sure are. So, yea, I’m happy.”

Still frowning, Rachel went back to the two customers at the counter, her pad and pen at the ready. “So, what’s it gonna be today, gentlemen?”

Mr. James, still upset that there was no chili, dropped his elbows onto the counter and frowned. “Well, since there’s no chili, I guess I’ll have to make do with a roast beef sandwich. Mashies on the side, with extra gravy. And some of those snap beans sound good.”

“And for you, Mr. Gallows?”

“Country fried steak for me. Mashed potatoes, gravy, and some limas, if you don’t mind.”

“Coming right up, gentlemen.”

Rachel turned in their order, then checked to see what Macy was doing. She was at the blonde girl’s table again, though only briefly. Looking at them both, Rachel got the sense that something was wrong, deeply wrong. She frowned, then tried to pick up her spirits before she brought down the rest of the customers. Again the bell tinkled, and she grabbed two menus. When the woman at the door turned, Rachel grabbed one more and a high chair for good measure.

When she was done getting the family settled, she came back to the counter, where the gentlemen were engaged in a grim discussion. She never actually eavesdropped, but it was hardly her fault if customers didn’t stop talking when they saw her approach. She would never repeat anything said inside the restaurant, but she heard a lot. And from time to time, the things she heard scared her.

“You heard anything about that, Rachel?” Gallows asked.

Rachel’s eyebrows popped up and she tilted her chin in his direction. “Heard anything about what? I didn’t catch that.”

“Grave robbers,” Mr. James answered, making spooky sounds that came out comical instead.

Rachel stepped closer, lowered her voice. “There’s grave robbers? In our cemetery? Which one?”

“The old one out by The Point. Pleasant Hills.” Mr. James nodded his head and looked grim.

“Order up!” Rick called from the kitchen.

Rachel stepped over and grabbed their plates, crossing her arms to deliver the food. Then she leaned on the counter in front of them, her face serious and dark. “So what did they do, these grave robbers?”

“Well, as I hear tell from the farmer who lives out that way, they tipped over a bunch of gravestones.”

“One of the mausoleums was broken into, too,” Gallows added.

The bell tinkled once more but Rachel didn’t even look up.
Let Macy catch that one
.

“They stole some bodies. Old bodies, from the Civil War graves.”

“Get out!” Rachel gasped, slapping her hand on the counter.

“Oh, they did not!” The reply came from the large man with the deep voice who had just walked in the door.

“Heya, Sheriff,” Rachel said with a smile. She reached under the counter and grabbed a coffee cup, slid it into position before him. When she had filled it, she stepped back, her face expectant. “You were saying?”

Sheriff Mack Dooley was not only large, he approached behemoth. He stood a whomping six-foot-five and carried around a solid three hundred pounds. People called him “Big Mack” or “McCop” but for all of that, they held nothing but respect for the man. He had been sheriff for nearly twelve years and in all that time, no one had run against him.

“These guys are just spitting out rumors, is all. Vandals is all it was. Probably some kids. They tipped over a few headstones and one of the mausoleums was open. Probably one kid dared another to go inside. Not a single body was disturbed anywhere. I doubt it’ll happen again.”

Rachel twisted her mouth and nodded slowly and thoughtfully. “You’re probably right. Just kids.” Disappointed at the lack of mystery, she stood up again. “The usual, Sheriff?”

“Thanks.”

Customers ate and went. The flow was steady. When finally it petered out to just two customers in the diner, they all took their own lunch break. Each took their own meal, their choice, and sat at the long counter. Macy popped her shoes off, letting them hit the floor one at a time with a soft plop and a sigh. Rachel, ever the prim one, kept her shoes on but propped her feet on the stool beneath her, sitting Indian style. Rick marveled at how she could manage it without falling off.

“Did you hear what Mack was saying? About the grave robbers?” Rachel chewed her food hastily, swallowing it down with a long drink of tea. “Some kids went into the old cemetery out by Cooper’s Point and tipped over some headstones and got into the mausoleum there.”

“Grave robbers?” Macy gasped. She leaned forward to look past Logan at Rachel. “They actually took bodies?”

“No, they didn’t actually take any bodies. Or at least the Sheriff
said
they didn’t.”

Macy looked a bit disappointed at that. She returned to her food with a sigh.

“Seems like we got a crime wave going lately,” Rick said. “The bank was robbed and the cemetery vandalized. I can’t remember the last time Laurel Falls even had a speeder in town.”

Macy finished with her food and put the plate in the bin beneath the counter. Then she shifted over to the stool next to Rachel’s and began rolling silverware into napkins.

“You see that girl sitting in the back booth?” she whispered, leaning in until her shoulder rested on Rachel’s.

“Yea. I’ve noticed her.” Rachel deliberately didn’t look the girl’s way.

“She’s been there since this morning, nursing a piece of pie and a Coke. She’s got a suitcase, too. I think there’s something wrong.”

“Yea.” Rachel paused, cast a sideways glance her way. “I think I’ll go have a little talk with her.

Rachel slid off the stool slowly, letting one foot touch the floor and then the other. She was careful to keep her expression steady, to keep her frown under control. As she walked over to the girl’s table, she thought of a million things to say. All of them sounded stupid.

“Can I freshen your drink, hon? Looks like all the ice has melted.” She reached for the glass but the girl pulled back, taking the soda with her.

“No, thanks. It’s fine.”

“It’s all watered down. I’ll just….”

“It’s fine. Really.”

Rachel had had enough. She simply couldn’t take it anymore. Even as she slid her backside into the booth, she knew it wouldn’t end well. She knew that anything she said would sound mean or condescending. And still, that train was already in motion and, by now, unstoppable.

“My name is Rachel. My husband, Rick, and I own this place.” She stuck her hand out and pasted on a smile, hoping for the best.

“I know,” the girl said without even looking at her.

Rachel let her hand dangle for a moment longer, then drew it back. “You’ve been sitting here for most of the day. You haven’t eaten your pie or drunk your soda. Now, I’m not mad or anything. I just wonder if there’s some sort of problem.”

The girl looked up at that, her eyes darting away at once, her gaze coming to rest on the uneaten pie. “Everything’s fine.” Beneath the table, her hands wrung and twisted. Rachel could tell.

Rachel sat back against the booth, her eyes still fixed on the girl’s face. She was young, no more than twenty-five, and certainly pretty. “I’ve seen a lot of people come through here over the years and I have a pretty good feel for the ones who have troubles. You strike me as one with troubles.”

The girl said nothing, shifted in her seat like she wanted to run.

“All right then. You’re not going to tell me what’s what, so how about I tell you? You got dropped off by somebody across the street, suitcase in hand. You walked right over here and came inside. You sat down and stuffed that bag of yours against the wall so nobody would see it. And you haven’t moved since. Now, I don’t care where you came from or what’s in that bag…unless it’s a bomb or something…”

The girl’s eyes snapped up and she look at Rachel with a horrified grimace. “Oh God! Nothing like that. No.”

“Didn’t think so. So, why don’t you tell me what’s
really
going on and maybe I can help you.”

The girl studied her hands for a moment, looking like she just might cry. She managed to fight it off, though, and when she spoke, there was the slightest tremor in her voice.

“It was my boyfriend who dropped me off this morning. He broke up with me. Just dumped me there on the sidewalk like a bag of trash. I don’t have any friends here and my family’s all the way across the country. I just didn’t know what to do or where to go. So, I came in here to sit down and think things over.”

“And have you? Thought things over, I mean.”