3: Abbey Hits Town, by Cat

 

 

Murder and Mayhem at Cherry Creek Episode 3 By Cat

 

 

Abbey Hits Town

 

 

     “This land is your land, this land is my land”, Abbey was half humming, half singing to herself with her head stuck inside the new Professional Chef freezer. Well, not quite new. Abbey had saved six months for the giant ice maiden and purchased it second hand from one township over. It’s first home, the City Market, had sold out to a chain conglomerate, with spiffy new appliances to go along with the exuberant new prices.  With one hand holding the door from clanging shut on her, Abbey stopped her pounding rendition of Woody Guthrie, to puzzle over the slabs of frozen pork fat.

 

     “How strange,” She murmured to herself. “I could have sworn I had more packages than that.” Lifting up the white butcher paper covered blocks, she peeked underneath a few, as if somehow they might have stuck together as one. “Next delivery,” she commented to herself, “I need to write things down. This dang memory bank of mine keeps making withdrawals without recording them.”

 

     The breakfast special every day this week was Francis Bacon Frittata.  It was a recipe she’d discovered quite by accident when she found her postage stamp summer garden was capable of a farm load of zucchini.  She noticed even that mongrel of Scotty’s could no longer be persuaded to eat the leftover zucchini muffins. Somehow the verdant vegetable seemed to be overlooked as the dreaded summer squash when she fluffed them into her original egg creation.

 

     “From  California to Maine and Thailand.” Abbey was notorious for forgetting the correct lyrics and continuing in her own vein.  Since retiring from the school system, the woman had never been more content.  The former instructor had stumbled upon Cherry Creek at dusk one September when she’d taken the wrong turn on the highway, heading back to Boston from Crater Lake. Abbey could still feel the dry heat of that late Indian summer. She’d pretty much pedaled herself into town when her faithful Beetle stuck in third gear in the middle of road bordered by barbed wire, dust and panic. It was luck she’d inherited from her Irish Grandmother that brought her to Fat Sally’s truck stop and introduced her to those two mechanics.

 

     She had spent many sleepless nights debating about spending her retirement fund and entering into debt to purchase Fat Sally’s. Truth was, without the help of Cadlin and Scotty, she might never had made the plunge. But now she knew it was the right decision. She spent more mornings waking with a smile on her face than the familiar dread in her heart. She’d found a way to practice her cooking skills and stay close to her beloved books all in the same place.

 

     In a former life, Christopher use to tell her to hurry up and learn the culinary skills and quit all the blasted practicing. She smiled as she glanced at the old Elgin, a tenth anniversary present from her departed husband. No one ever knew if the man had died or simply departed.  Abbey preferred to leaving them guessing. For the more persistent big rig vagabonds, she’d usually make up some story of his demise. The stories entertained her, and kept the local wondering as well. Anyone familiar with the old Hitchcock Magazines on the back shelves would have recognized her tales immediately.

 

     Five-Fifteen. It was a rare morning when Judd didn’t sneak past the wooden porch and steal the current edition of the True Grit, always returning it by afternoon, neatly folded and stuffed under a couple old copies of National Geographic. Probably hoping she’d think it had been there all the time. She was on to him, but no harm done, so she let him carry on with his ruse.

 

     Abbey headed toward the front counter to prepare the morning specialty brew- Bronte Brule. She heard Cadlin and Scotty arguing loudly near the front door and rattling the lock. They knew darn well she didn’t open the front door a minute before five-thirty. If they’d just bother to walk around to the delivery entrance, she’d usually let them sneak in and help themselves to the regular coffee. That seemed to suit them anyway. Though Scotty would often try one of the literary café’s new flavors, usually just to pacify Abbey and appear grateful, Cadlin steadfastly refused to even sample it. That man would be content to drink Valvoline, if just the right temperature.

 

     Well, this morning they could either come around back or wait until she was read to flip the OPEN sign.