Софи Келли - Final Catcall

“Where’s the other one?” he asked.

The other one? Hercules looked at Andrew like he was the dust-covered head from one of Owen’s funky chickens. He made a huffy sound through his nose, jumped down and headed across the lawn toward Rebecca’s backyard, placing each foot down carefully on the damp grass. That he was willing to chance getting his paws wet showed just how annoyed he was.

Hercules and Owen seemed convinced that they were—if not people—then certainly not someone’s pets. And they expected to be treated accordingly.

Andrew pointed across the yard. “How old is the gazebo in your neighbor’s yard? I’ve never seen a design quite like it.” He walked partway across the lawn to get a better look.

I went over to stand beside him. “I’m not sure,” I said. “I could ask Rebecca for you.”

“I’d love to know how he worked out the overhang,” he said, squinting at the gazebo roof. “I don’t suppose there’s still a set of plans around anywhere.”

I smiled and shook my head. “No. There never were any plans. Harrison Taylor built that gazebo and the only plans he had were in his head.”

Andrew turned to look at me. “You’re kidding.”

I tucked my hands in the pockets of my sweatshirt. “No, I’m not. I’d take you to meet him, but he’s out of town.”

He glanced back for another look as we walked toward the driveway. “I’m sorry about that. The guy’s good.”

I thought about Harry Senior, who always reminded me of Santa Claus. “Yes, he is,” I said.

“So are we going to Eric’s?” Andrew asked as we walked around the side of the house.

“I thought I’d take you over to Fern’s Diner this morning.”

He started for his rental car and I followed instead of arguing that we should take my truck.

“Diner?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Does that mean old-fashioned diner food?”

“Yes, it does,” I said. “Their motto is ‘Food just like Mom used to make—Maybe better.’”

He laughed. “Okay. I have to try this place.”

“They have a big breakfast like nothing else you’ve ever had. You probably won’t be able to finish it.”

He paused, hand on the top of the driver’s door. “Is that a challenge?”

I thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, I guess it is,” I finally said with a smile.

Andrew grinned. “You’re on, then.”

Other than the morning I’d had breakfast with Burtis Chapman, the only other times I’d been to the diner was for Meatloaf Tuesday with Roma. Fern’s had been part of the landscape of Mayville Heights for a long time. About six years ago it had been restored to its 1950s glory, or as Roma had put it, “Just exactly like it never was.”

The building was long and low with a decent-size parking lot in back. It had windows on three sides, and the front glowed with neon after dark. Inside there was the requisite jukebox, a counter with gleaming chrome stools and cozy booths with red vinyl seats.

To my surprise, Burtis Chapman was perched on a stool at the counter, one massive hand wrapped around a coffee cup. The first time I’d ever taken notice of those huge hands it had occurred to me that he could probably squeeze my head between his thumb and index finger and make my brains come squirting out of my ears. I was very glad that he seemed to like me.

We walked over to the counter and Burtis smiled when he caught sight of me. He was a big block of a man and his smile didn’t make him look any less intimidating. I remembered that the crocodile had smiled at Captain Hook right before he’d swallowed the pirate’s hand.

“Kathleen, girl, it’s good to see you,” Burtis said. “What in heck are you doing here?”

“Good to see you, too, Burtis,” I said. “I came for breakfast. What about you? Isn’t it a little past your breakfast time?”

He gave me a sly grin. “Well, for breakfast number one, but not number two.”

I turned to Andrew, who had been watching us like he was discovering another culture in a National Geographic special. “Burtis, this is my friend Andrew Reid. He’s here from Boston. Andrew, this is Burtis Chapman.”

Andrew took the hand Burtis offered and did his best not to wince as they shook.

“So you’re the young man who was a big enough asshole to let Kathleen get away,” Burtis said. I should have known that if he’d heard the story—and who in town hadn’t by now—he’d say something.

Andrew’s face reddened but he held the older man’s gaze.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I am the asshole who let her go. And now I’m trying to win her back.”

“And how’s that workin’ for you?” Burtis asked.

“Not well,” Andrew said with a shake of his head. I saw him surreptitiously clench and unclench the hand Burtis had just shaken. Probably trying to figure out if there were any intact bones left in it.

Burtis laughed. “I gotta give you credit for trying,” he said. “But I can’t wish you good luck because we want to keep Kathleen here.”

Andrew nodded. “Well, then, may the best man win.”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” Burtis said. He winked at me.

I slipped onto the stool beside him and Andrew took the one on the other side of me.

The waitress came out of the kitchen and slid a plate of fried tomatoes and what looked to be sourdough toast in front of Burtis. She was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt with PEGGY SUE embroidered over the pocket, hot pink pedal pushers, and red open-toe wedgies.

She smiled at me. “Hi, hon, what can I get you?”

It probably would have surprised a lot of people to know that Peggy had read every issue of Scientific American the library had and all of Stephen Hawking’s books on quantum physics.

“The big breakfast for each of us,” I said, gesturing at Andrew. “And coffee, please, when you have a minute.”

“Sure thing,” she said.

“Peggy Sue?” Andrew said softly in my ear.

“It’s her real name.”

He caught sight of the jukebox at the far end of the diner. “Does that work?”

I nodded. “Do you have quarters?”

He patted his pockets and slid down off the stool. “I do. I’ll be right back.”

Burtis set his mug on the countertop and looked at me. “Did Brady take care of your friend yesterday?”

“Yes, he did,” I said. “I like him.”

The sly smile was back. “The boy gets his charm from me.”

Peggy put a huge mug of coffee in front of me and I reached for the sugar. “Burtis, I have a feeling that’s not all Brady gets from you.”

He laughed. “If Brady was here he’d tell me not to say anything that might incriminate myself, so I’ll just keep my mouth shut.”

I smiled back at him, added cream to my cup and took a long drink. Fern’s had excellent coffee.

“Burtis, did you loan your truck to Abigail Pierce the other night?” I asked.

The grin disappeared. “Now who exactly wants to know? You or Detective Marcus Gordon?”

I took another sip of coffee before I answered. “Me,” I said. I set the cup down and leaned one elbow on the counter. Andrew was still looking through selections on the jukebox, but I wanted to finish the conversation with Burtis before he came back. “You heard about Hugh Davis, the director from the theater festival Abigail is helping to organize?”

He nodded. “I know who you mean.”

“Abigail’s my friend. I don’t want anything from his death to splash back on her. If you’d rather I ask her, I will.”

Burtis shook his head. “No need. Yeah, I loaned her one of my trucks. She had some stuff she needed to move for the festival and I have more than one truck. She picked it up Friday afternoon and brought it back that same night. Didn’t look like she’d moved any dead bodies with it, by the way.”