The diner was an old building, perhaps a little under-maintained around the edges, but clean. The faded and chipped stenciled letters on the plate-glass window read simply Sam’s Diner. The air inside was filled with the aroma of breakfast: eggs, bacon, pancakes, and coffee. The place was already filling with customers, probably mostly local regulars. An older waitress seemed to know many of their names, smiling warmly, asking about family, and placing a familiar hand on a shoulder as she filled cups.
A sign read Seat Yourself, so I did. I looked around the tables and saw several faces turn toward me, some stoic, some inquisitive, others attempting to hide snickers of laughter. I wondered if I’d forgotten to zip my fly. Or maybe my shirt was inside out. Or maybe that is just the way strangers are greeted here. Welcome to Willow Run.
I spotted the Sheriff sitting against the opposite wall, having breakfast and chatting with a second younger slender waitress, her long dark hair flowing over her shoulders. Other patrons of the diner stopped to greet the Sheriff or wave a good morning to him from across the room. Certainly, he was a popular guy. Everybody’s friend. Sheriff for life, perhaps. I guess that’s the way it is in a small town.
After a few more moments, the slender waitress left his table and strode towards me. She was probably in her forties, with tiny flecks of gray in her long dark hair. But her smooth pale skin made her look younger. I wondered how someone living out in Big Sky Country, where the sun shines bright so many days each year, could have such clear unlined skin.
I was surprised to see that she wore a nametag. It seemed redundant since everyone already appeared to know her. But it at least informed me, a stranger, of her name. Janice.
“Mornin’. Having coffee today?” she said smoothly as soon as she stopped near the table.
“Good morning. Sure.” As she poured, I asked, “Any menu recommendation?”
“Try the country breakfast. That’s steak, eggs, toast, and pancakes. It may be lacking in some of the basic food groups, but it will stick to your ribs for hiking all day. Mr. Parker from Cincinnati, isn’t it?”
“How did you….”
“Honey, it’s a small town. Word travels fast.” She continued. “Besides, you drove up in a car with Ohio plates, and you’re wearing what look like hiking boots.” She paused to let me speak. But I was speechless, admiring her investigative skills. So she smilingly said, “And Deputy Powell was in here earlier. Told us all about your adventure yesterday. That boy loves to tell a story.”
I felt a bit embarrassed at hearing this. And I was professionally offended that an officer of the law would tell the whole town about what should be a private police matter. He should be keeping that information to himself, not sharing it with all his buddies. Before I could brood on that any further, Janice flicked her head, sexily sending her hair to lie over the other shoulder, and turned back to the business of breakfast.
“So how do you want your steak?”
Since it seemed she had decided that her recommendation was what my meal would be, I simply replied, “Medium, with sunny side up eggs.”
“You got it,” she said cheerily. She strode toward the kitchen.
So the word was out. I was the village idiot who thought he found a body. No wonder I was a focus of attention when entering the diner. A small town. Word travels fast. I would probably hear more about that for the next day or two, or maybe the whole week, until the next gossip-worthy news cropped up.
While waiting for my meal, I thought about the dead man on Monarch Trail. I didn’t know where this was going to lead, but having a body disappear on me was troubling. Having Deputy Powell gossip about it might be his way to embarrass and humiliate me into dropping my interest in the incident. But all it did was encourage me to prove that I was right and that he was wrong.
Soon my meal arrived, and it smelled and tasted fabulous. This was definitely, as Janice said, going to stick to my ribs all day. I dove in. I put jelly on the toast, mashed the bread into the yellow yoke of an egg, and downed the dripping slice. I buried the pancakes in maple syrup, forked some into my mouth, and savored the sweet stickiness. Then I carved up the steak, running the pieces through the yolk and syrup residue on the plate. When I finished, there was nothing left on the plate except a bone that had been picked clean. I topped it off with another cup of coffee. I had not eaten that much in one sitting in a long time. I was stuffed, but felt satisfied. I gladly paid, leaving a generous tip on the table.
Getting into my car, I noticed the Deputy sitting in his SUV across the street, the engine idling. He wasn’t being secretive about watching me. He stared right at me.
I opened my car door, grabbed a pad of paper, and tore off a page. I placed it on the hood of my car, leaning over it and printing four short lines. Out of my peripheral vision, I could see that Powell was peering at me intently, probably wondering what the hell I was doing. He would find out soon enough. I labeled the four short lines of print, from top to bottom, 1, 2, 3, and 4, circling each number prominently. I walked over to the Deputy’s car. He had the driver’s side window open and his left elbow jutting out. He watched me approach. Since he didn’t have on his sunglasses, I could easily see his eyes, which got wider with each step I took in his direction.
“Deputy Powell,” I said politely and evenly. “So it will be easier for you to follow me, here’s my schedule for the day.” I stuck the paper through the open window and flicked it onto the dashboard. “Have a nice day.” Then I backed away a few paces, before turning toward my car.
It was an impulsive move that took less than a minute from start to finish. At any point during that time, I could have talked myself out of doing it. But, of course, I didn’t. Instead, I rather enjoyed it.
The Deputy, though, had not enjoyed it. I heard him growl, so I turned back to watch him. His face flushed red with rage.
“You wise ass!” he blurted, starting to climb out of his patrol vehicle. I thought he might charge at me. But he stopped halfway out the door, with just his left foot planted on the ground.
“Good morning, Mr. Parker.” It was the Sheriff, who had come up behind me from the diner. I turned toward him and saw that while he was talking to me, he looked past me toward his Deputy. He asked with concern, “Any problem?”
“No, Sheriff. None at all,” I replied calmly. “Just telling Deputy Powell about my plans for the day. Going hiking.”
Enid had gotten back into his car, slamming the door and scowling again. He seemed to scowl a lot. But maybe it was just because of me, in which case I was glad to accommodate.
The Sheriff put his hands on his hips in a gesture of resignation. He clearly knew there was more to it than I let on. But he seemed to realize there was no use in pressing further. So he dully said, “Have a good hike.” He tipped the brim of his hat slightly and walked off toward the police station.