“Hey, there, Dylan,” Paris Fernwood called out as she rushed from behind the counter, her arms filled with plates of food.
“Hey, Paris,” he returned and reached for his black Stetson. He took it off and ran his fingers through his hair. As he moved toward a vacant stool, he exchanged “heys” with several locals.
“What can I get for you, Sheriff?” Iona Osborn asked from behind the counter.
“The usual.” He took a seat on the red vinyl stool and placed his hat on his knee.
Iona grabbed a hidden pencil from the ten-gallon pile of wispy gray hair on her head and wrote down his order. Then she clipped it to the stainless-steel ticket wheel. “Two fries and two cheeseburgers to go,” she yelled, even though the cook stood just on the other side of the half wall. “One with everything, one plain with mayo only,” she added.
Without missing a turn of his spatula or looking up to see who’d placed the order, Jerome said, “I’ll get that right out to you, Sheriff.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
Iona reached for a big gray tub and began to clear the counter of dirty plates and glasses. “So did ya find that flatlander?”
Dylan didn’t even bother asking how the waitress knew police business. In Gospel, everyone just knew. Not only did Iona have the distinction of having the biggest hair in town, she was also the biggest gossip, which in Gospel was quite an accomplishment.
“We found him on the lower east face of Mount Regan. He saw all that snow and decided to do a little skiing,” he said and hooked the heel of one boot on the stool’s metal rung. “In his shorts and tennis shoes.”
Iona dumped the last glass in the gray tub, then reached for a washcloth. “Flatlanders,” she scoffed and wiped down the counter. “Most of ‘em traipse off into the wilderness without so much as a first-aid kit.” She worked at a ketchup spot and got to the important question. “Well, did he bust anything? Melba’s bet on a heap of fractures this year.”
He knew about the Flatlander Pool, of course. He didn’t play, but he figured it was all pretty harmless. “Broke his right ankle and tore some ligaments in his knee,” he answered. “Has quite a case of exposure, too.”
“Right ankle, you say? I bet on a sprained right ankle. Don’t suppose I could claim a break as a sprain, though.”
“No, I don’t suppose you can,” he said and tossed his hat on the cleaned counter.
The front door to the diner opened, setting off the cowbell tied to the knob. Loretta sang her last note, a plate broke somewhere in the rear, and Iona leaned across the counter and spoke in a loud whisper. “She’s back!”
Dylan glanced over his shoulder, and there, standing by the jukebox, looking as fresh as a peach, was MZBHAVN herself. She’d changed out of her tight jeans and into a little summer dress with little straps. She’d pulled her hair up in the back and put away her boots in favor of flat sandals that crisscrossed over her feet.
“She was in here around noon,” Iona said beneath her breath. “Ordered a chef’s salad, dressing on the side, asking all sorts of questions.”
“What kind of questions?” He turned and watched Ms. Spencer walk right past him, eyes forward, as if she didn’t notice the attention she attracted. Through the thick odor of grease and the evening’s blue plate special, he could swear he almost smelled the scent of peaches on her skin. The hem of her dress flirted with the backs of her thighs as she moved to a booth in the back. She slid across the worn red vinyl to the corner and reached for a menu. A lock of her blond hair fell across her cheek, and she raised a hand and swept it behind her ear.
“She wanted to know if everything in her salad was fresh and she asked about available men.”
“Available men?” Hunger curled deep in the pit of Dylan’s belly, and he wasn’t positive it had anything to do with food this time.
“Yeah, available young men to clean out the Donnelly house. At least that’s what she says.”
He turned back to Iona. “And you don’t believe her?”
The waitress’s lips pursed with disapproval. “I called Ada over at the motel, and sure enough, the woman checked in there. I guess she made a long-distance call from the lobby. Ada says she made a big stink, yelling and cursing and carrying on about weeds and dirt, and I guess the place is full of bat- you know what, but she didn’t say ‘you know what.’ Ada says she has a foul mouth and a bad temper. Ada also said the woman started right away asking about available men, even before the ink was dry on her paperwork. She isn’t wearing a wedding ring. So she’s probably divorced, and she told us if we knew anyone interested in helping her that she’s staying at the Sandman Motel for a few days. Sounds to me like she’s lookin‘ to start things up out there again.”
Which Dylan figured was one of the dumbest things he’d heard in a while, but it didn’t surprise him. Even after five years, people in town stilled loved to talk about Sheriff Donnelly and the things he’d done in that old house. The unsavory details of the sheriff’s personal life had been the biggest shock to hit town since the earthquake of ‘83. “Sounds like she just needs help cleaning up bat droppings. Nothing wrong with that.”
Iona shoved the tub below the counter, then folded her arms across her ample bosom. “She’s from California,” the waitress said, as if no further explanation was needed. She gave one anyway. “Ada said that when the woman was in the motel, her jeans were real tight. She didn’t have a detectable panty line, so we figured she’s obviously wearing thong underwear, and the only reason a woman would ever wear something that uncomfortable is to show off for men. Everyone knows those California women play fast and loose.”
Dylan looked over his shoulder and watched Paris take the blond woman’s order. Ms. Spencer pointed to several different places on the menu, and by Paris’s pained expression, she was obviously one of those pain-in-the-ass “on the side” girls. Ms. Spencer looked like trouble, all right, but not the kind Iona meant. Dylan unhooked his bootheel and stood. “I guess I better go ask her about those panties,” he said. “Can’t have a woman walking around in a thong and me not knowing about it.”
“Sheriff, you’re bad.” Iona giggled like a teenager as he walked away, across the red-and-white linoleum, to the booth in the back.
When Ms. Spencer didn’t look up, he said, “Hello, there, heard you’ve had a real rough day.”
She gazed up at him then. Looked at him through the clearest blue eyes he’d ever seen. Blue the color of Sawtooth Lake. So clear he could see the bottom.
“You heard about my problem?”