5: Boston Haunts Her, by Cat

 

MURDER AND MAYHEM AT CHERRY CREEK

EPISODE 5

BY: CAT

 

 

 

Boston Haunts Her

 

 

    Abbey was leaning across the counter, her head buried in a Raymond Chandler mystery, the latest arrival from her monthly book club. Except for one-armed Jake Johnson who was always so quiet you hardly knew he was around, the diner was relatively silent. The front door was propped open to allow a bit of a breeze through and both overhead fans were running overtime. Occasionally you could hear the freezer motor kick in then off again. The mid-day sun was a scorcher. Abbey’s only relief was the sweating green bottle of Coke she occasionally wiped her brow with before guzzling it down a constantly dry throat. She was on her third bottle now.

 

    Jake was hunkered down in a back booth, lost in a collection of stories by O. Henry. He came in at this time every afternoon to wait for his wife's shift to end at local millinery store. Despite that deformity at birth, Jake was as strong a man as any bull needed to be. He was in charge of the nightshift at the local rail yard. Taking his position of policing the cars as seriously as Sheriff Pat took guarding a violent prisoner. With the old Desoto the only vehicle for the couple to share, Jake drove Margaret to town every morning and was waiting at the corner to drive her home at 5:15 sharp every evening. He always appeared shy around Abbey, but ever polite and endearing. Every now and again a railroad car would wreck with a boxcar full of slightly damaged merchandise, to soon be covered by the Line’s insurance carrier. Jake always found a home for the various items that would have been discarded anyway. The new overstuffed chair in the back reading room was one such find. Abbey discovered it outside her door early one morning. One leg was missing, but Cadlin had promised to fix her a new leg right away. The chair was still being propped up by an old Butternut can.

 

    Jake always spent the last two hours of the afternoon at Fat Sally’s, reading, and almost always it was O. Henry. Abbey was sure by now he’d have had the three collections the place owned memorized. She did take note that Jake usually tried to hide the book in some obtuse place to ensure it would be there when he returned. She no longer tried to encourage Jake to take the book home for he always insisted he’d just misplace it. Abbey assumed he liked the afternoon solitude of the diner.  Whenever Abbey straightened out the bookshelves, she made sure to leave Jake’s hiding place untouched. Today Jake had helped himself to his usual orange Nehi from the cooler, dropped a quarter on the counter and was snuggled into a back booth.

 

    With both the screen and wooden door held open by an old metal milk crate, the usual warning bell was disengaged. Leslie Willis was able to sneak right up to the counter and startled Abbey into a yelp.

 

     “Hello Darrrrrrrrrrlin. You sure are looking pretty, as usual”, he whispered in a conspiratorial tone. His face so close to her ear that she was repelled to back up against the ice cream freezer. Abbey detected a slight New England accent behind what was an obviously poor attempt at a southern drawl.

 

    Catching the Coke bottle just as her elbow was about to knock it off the counter, She snapped at him. “Jesus! You scared the bejeebees out of me, Leslie!” She scolded with a scowl. She was never eager to see the man.

 

    Jake looked up from his reading, just long enough for Abbey to catch a scowl cross his face, as well. Leslie Willis, a fairly new visitor to the café, was not much liked by the locals. Abbey couldn’t quite put her finger on why she disliked the man so much, only that he did not appear genuine.

 

    She convinced herself temporarily that it was just the man’s essence the put her off.

    The man wreaked of Old Spice, an entire bottle of Old Spice.  “The man smells like a dozen sailors” Abbey groused to herself.

 

    “What can I get you Leslie?” She asked in a flat voice.

 

    “Darlin, I keep tellin’ you the name is Les. Unless you have some other term of endearment you’d like to call me?” The lecherous grin did nothing more than make Abbey want to walk away and stick her head in the freezer.

 

    There was something very familiar about this new trucker who started coming by the diner just six weeks earlier. His route seemed to take him out of town for a couple weeks at a time, and then he was back again. Abbey noticed his clean white cotton Hanes with the pack of Camels rolled up in the left sleeve, revealed the hint of a tattoo. For such a warm day, there were no telltale signs of underarm sweat and his full head of black hair was freshly swooped back in an attempt to look like Elvis Presley.  At six-feet four-inches and a belly that hung below the belt line, Abbey thought he looked more like the giant mascot atop the Big Boy Burger Palace.

 

    “I’ll have some of that delicious blackberry pie, Sweety. Damn, but you make the best pies in six states.” He crooned, dripping the compliment.

 

    ”I hate to disappoint you Leslie.” Abbey purposely stuck with the man’s full name. She thought it sounded very feminine for the big dork and enjoyed a bit of self-satisfaction seeing him grimace each time she said it. “I can’t take any credit.  These are Dolly’s pies. Made fresh this morning. Dolly makes the best pies in all fifty states. After a million attempts at baking pies that sat with the forks still glued to the customer’s plates, Abbey had given up trying. She’d made an arrangement to buy the pies from Dolly’s place just before opening every morning. Abbey’s regulars appreciated it.

 

    Abbey could feel Leslie’s eyes roaming over her before he spoke. “Darlin’, why don’t you and your waitresses wear those cute little pink frilly dresses those gals down at Dolly’s wear? You know, a bit of lipstick would bring out your smile, too. Sometimes I drive past here and think it’s one of those garage men hunched over the counter.”

 

    Well, the man sure knew how to pass out the respects. Abbey looked down at her faded dungarees, rolled up just past the knee. Her yellow and blue windowpane plaid shirt was hidden behind a flour-towel apron. She brushed back her dark, shortly cropped hair with a heavy sigh. The look of disgust she gave Leslie, left little to be said.

    She barely had time to dry her hair most mornings, let alone worry about the more feminine grooming chores of makeup and hairstyles.

 

    She’d worn her heavy locks long for Christopher. A decade ago in Boston, there was always time for the weekly trip to the beauty shop with a few hours to spend on the manicure and hairstyle. Dining at the Club had been a regular ritual for them back then. She had no one to try to please now and was too busy running a business to worry about pleasing anyone new, even if she was so inclined. Most nights she shared the leftover diner special with Hitchcock, the fattest black cat in the county.

 

    Thinking about Christopher suddenly set off alarms in her head. The night before he disappeared three men had come to the house asking to see him. He had quickly ushered them into his back office. Being an attorney, it was not unusual for clients to drop by in the evenings for consultations. Rarely though, did they come in threes. Uncharacteristically of her husband, he had not bothered to stop to introduce them to her either. She only caught glimpses of their back as the tallest one took off his hat just as he closed the door securely behind them. She remembered opening the windows of the office later that evening to air out the cloying smell of Old Spice.