A Rip Roaring Good Time (13 page)

I felt like I was trying to dig myself out of a hole that I didn't even know how I'd fallen into. For some reason, her tentative expression had changed to one of disgust the second I said I had nothing against their kind. I was aware I'd probably worded it all wrong. In this day and age, people sure seemed to worry a great deal more than they used to about saying anything that could in one way or another rub someone the wrong way. Lord knows, I hadn't meant to be insensitive or offensive.

As if sensing an argument beginning to brew, Wendy entered the exchange quickly by saying, "Ferry's Landing was named after just what it sounds like. The town was situated right where a free ferry crossed the Missouri River back in the 1800s. It was a large wooden ferry that actually transported carriages and stage coaches from one side of the river to the other. Naturally the ferry landing is long gone and there's a bridge there now. It's kind of an artsy-crafty community. Ferry's Landing was originally established by a group of artists and has attracted talented craftsmen of every imaginable medium ever since."

"Oh, so it's more like a Woodstock kind of place, with drugs, wild music, hippies, and all that kind of nonsense?" I asked.

"No, not really," Wendy replied, with a quick glance over to Veronica as if to judge her reaction to my comments. "Just a lot of talented people who like to display their work in the highly acclaimed art galleries for which Ferry's Landing is known."

"Well, they sound like hippies to me. You know, the kind that smoke marijuana and eat Oreos while they haphazardly splatter paint across a canvas. Then, of course, they think everything they create while in a drug-induced stupor has some profound meaning. Most of what's called 'art' these days looks to me like crazy crap drawn by a drunken monkey that somebody handed a paintbrush to. A waste of perfectly good paint and paper as far as I'm concerned." From the glare Veronica graced me with, I knew immediately I'd stuck my foot in it again.

"Good Lord," Veronica muttered under her breath. But not so under her breath that I didn't make out what she'd said. With an exasperated-sounding sigh, she shook her head, very rudely I might add, and began to pick up empty plates to take into the kitchen. I had obviously offended the beanpole—again!

Whatever
, I thought. I don't know why it's so, but I seem to have the knack for offending people who easily get their bloomers in a bunch. I guess I wouldn't make a very good politician. I don't think I could walk on eggshells all the time, afraid I might make some innocent remark that would somehow upset a large percentage of the population by not being "politically correct" enough. Becoming the focus of a "slip-of-the-tongue" scandal would just be a matter of time for me.

Suddenly, I wasn't sure I liked the anorexic-looking broad who had just exited the dining room. In fact, I hoped the next time Veronica opened her mouth it would be to put the last remaining calorie-loaded cinnamon stick into it.

* * *

"Coffee?" Wendy asked as I walked into the kitchen the following morning. She had stopped by on her way to work. It was just after six and she didn't have to report to the county coroner's lab until eight. She seemed frisky and full of energy.

"Yes, please," I said. Wendy removed another cup from the cabinet and filled it to the brim.

I sat down at the table and within seconds, Wendy sat down in the chair across from me. I had slept fitfully and felt a bit grumpy that early in the morning.

"Are you okay, Rapella?" Wendy asked. I guess she must have noticed the uncharacteristic scowl on my face that I'd been trying unsuccessfully to mask as a friendly smile.

"Yes, I'm fine. Just a little groggy from not sleeping well last night."

"Were you worried about upsetting Veronica?"

Wendy's question threw me for a loop. "No. Should I have been?"

"Well, well, no, no, not really," Wendy stammered. "I just thought the conversation between the two of you last night might have put you on edge. She can be a little sensitive, if you hadn't noticed. Veronica was a victim of a lot of bullying while growing up, primarily about her looks. She still hasn't been able to totally get past it."

"You're kidding me, right? A knock-out like her got ridiculed for her looks? That's just crazy talk! She must have grown out of it 'cause ain't no one gonna tease her now about her looks, other than maybe her stick figure. I'll have to apologize to her for upsetting her, even though I'm not really sure what it is I said that put a burr under her saddle. I didn't realize she'd had a rough childhood. She seems very fragile to me, both physically and emotionally. By the way, when's the last time that woman ate a proper meal?"

Wendy chuckled, even though I'd been dead serious. She replied, "Veronica's not the type to carry a grudge, so I think I'd just leave it alone if I were you. And actually, she has put on a few pounds since we got home from Wyoming. She's really trying hard to get past her eating issues. I'll give her that. There was a time when she would have bypassed a slice of pizza altogether in lieu of a small, dressing-free salad."

"Yeah, I guess she does seem to have filled out a touch since I saw her there three weeks ago. Good for her, but she's got a ways to go to look healthy. Veronica's pretty as she is, but she'd be stunning if she could fill out a bit more and flesh out them sunken cheeks of hers."

"That's exactly what I told her. And also in her spare time, Veronica dabbles in abstract painting. She's attempted to get a few pieces of her work accepted in one of the most prestigious art galleries in Ferry's Landing and got a resounding,
'
No thanks, lady, you best keep your day job,' in response every time. I'd have to agree with you, though. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to any of her paintings. I don't know about a drunken monkey, but I think both you and I could come up with something just as remarkable." With her last comment, she chuckled again, louder this time.

"So, back to Alice Runcan," I said. I had no time to waste talking about a young gal who had no insight into the murder of Trotter Hayes. I'm certain Veronica was at the surprise party, but I didn't recall seeing her there. Besides, I needed to dig some more information out of Wendy before she left for work. "What kind of restaurant is Zen's Diner?"

"I have no idea, but it sounds like a small town cafe to me. Why do you ask?"

"I was thinking that Rip and I might visit the diner for lunch today. You never know what you might find out if you ask the right people the right questions."

"Oh, dear. My mother's rubbing off on you, isn't she?" Wendy asked, while donning a mocking expression of horror. "I was afraid this was going to happen."

"Well, I have to say I do admire her spunk and dogged determination to get to the bottom of things when she's involved in a murder case like this one."

"Oh, dear," Wendy repeated dramatically. Then with a smile she added, "You can always Google Zen's Diner to find out more about the place."

"You want me to do what to what?" I asked. For a second I thought I might need to borrow Rip's hearing aids since, after all, he hardly ever wore them himself.

When Wendy repeated herself, I shook my head and asked, "What are you talking about?"

"Um, you have a cell phone, don't you?"

"Rip does, but he knows little more than I do about how to use it."

"Okay. Well, in that case, I thought I heard you tell Stone you owned an iPad."

"I did," I replied. "But I didn't say I had a clue about what to do with it. I'm not sure I could even turn it on if I had to. My spend-thrifty daughter gave it to us last Christmas and told us we'd love it. So far, not so much! Can't figure out what we could possibly need it for to tell the truth. It's been taking up valuable space in our trailer since Reggie gave it to us."

"Go get the tablet, Rapella. I'll give you a quick lesson on the basics, like how to Google things so you'll be able to access information more readily—about any conceivable thing you could come up with."

That did sound like it'd be handy, especially in our current circumstances. However, the "tablet," as Wendy had called it, had never been charged and was still on the end table in the trailer. So she looked up the address on her "smart" phone for me. She then told me if I'd go and pick our iPad up from the trailer, she'd stop by on her way home from work and teach me a thing or two about how to utilize it. To date it had been doing nothing more than collecting dust.

A few hours later Rip and I were on our way to Ferry's Landing. He had entered the address of the diner into his GPS and was following the step-by-step directions the lady's voice inside it was giving him. For once, I was glad I'd agreed to let my husband buy the gadget for his last birthday. Not that my approval to purchase it was necessary to begin with.

When we pulled up to the diner, it was nothing like I'd imagined. I expected to find your every day greasy spoon, the kind you find in every small town in the country. Small town diners are usually full of truckers and farmers in their overalls, eating biscuits and gravy and leaving greasy finger smudges all over their coffee cups. Also, there's usually old men who arrive there at the same time every morning and sit in the same seats. They lounge around there shooting the crap with other geezers for hours on end, paying a buck-fifty for a cup of coffee with eight free refills.

Turned out there wasn't one person in the cafe over forty when we walked into the diner. And if you'd have ordered biscuits and gravy, they'd have laughed and said something sarcastic like, "I'm guessing clogged arteries aren't a big concern of yours?"

At Zen's Diner there were beads hanging in the windows where curtains should have hung. There was the pungent smell of what had to be some type of incense burning. The acrid smoke hanging in the air caused my eyes to water and my stomach to roil. I was informed later by our waitress that the incense was lavender-scented to promote feelings of peace and tranquility. If that were the case, their attempt at aromatherapy, as the waitress called it, wasn't working, because I felt anything but tranquil.

Inside a see-through dome on the counter, where most restaurants would display slices of apple and coconut-cream pie, there were bowls of unrecognizable gooey gunk, including one that resembled porridge gone bad. I was particularly fascinated with a bowl of what reminded me of a Chia pet I once owned.
Why in the world would anyone actually want to eat any of the stuff featured under the clear plastic dome?
I wondered.

I'm not sure how the restaurant could be struggling financially, because we had to wait fifteen minutes to be seated. Granted, the seating space was limited, but still, fifteen minutes for lunch? That was ridiculous, as far as I was concerned. Under normal circumstances, we wouldn't have waited two minutes. There were other places to eat, after all. But today wasn't a normal circumstance.

I was convinced we stood out like ancient ruins in the long line of young people, who could only be described as "out there." And despite what Veronica or Wendy might think, they looked like hippies to me. I felt as if Rip and I had gotten trapped in a time machine that had transported us back to the sixties.

Once we were seated at a tall table, on chairs that practically gave me a nose bleed, I studied the menu and wondered if perhaps we should request one written in English. I didn't recognize one thing listed on their "lunch specials" page. The specialty of the day was the
Hummus Tofu Scramble
, which was described as a gluten-free, vegan, lactose and MSG-free casserole. Today's recipe included zucchini and those Chia-pet looking weeds they called bean sprouts. The photo of the dish looked like gobble-de-goop to me.

"This ain't no Cracker Barrel, is it?" I muttered under my breath. Rip shook his head as he studied the menu. Cracker Barrel was a favorite of many RVers. Not only was the food good, but the restaurants were also usually located close to the interstates and offered RV parking. It's a little difficult to run through a fast food drive-thru with a thirty-foot travel trailer hitched to your bumper.

Rip ordered a turkey bacon carb-free wrap and I ordered the specialty of the day. "I'll take the Hummus Tofu Scramble, please. Could you have the cook hold the hummus, tofu, and bean sprouts, and maybe double up on the zucchini?"

The waitress, who looked like she could be playing hooky from middle school, gave me a strange look and spent a great deal of time writing my order down on her small pad of paper. When I asked her if I could speak with the owner, she looked confused, as if she thought I intended to complain about the service we were receiving. She shook her head and replied, "She's not here right now. She's usually only here in the mornings during the breakfast rush. I'm sorry it took me so long to take your order but we are short-handed right now. Two of our servers just quit, and Alice hasn't been able to find new help."

A light-bulb flashed on in my head. I'd once worked at a cafe called Ken's Diner in my home town of Rockport. Zen's Diner, Ken's Diner—how much different could it be? I didn't recognize anything on their menu but I could fake it long enough to have a conversation with the owner, couldn't I? From her I'd get the answers I needed to assess any motives she might have had to kill Hayes, or alibis she might have to prove she didn't. Then I'd tell her I didn't think the job was right for me and quit just like the last two servers had.

I tapped Rip's shin with my foot and said to the prepubescent-looking waitress with hair dyed every color in the rainbow, "I'm actually looking for a job right now. I have a lot of experience as a waitress, and I think this job would be ideal for me. What do I need to do to apply?"