His fur was still sticking out in every direction. He walked around the room making grumbling noises, clearly in a major bad mood.
I washed my hands, put bread in the toaster and milk to warm in the microwave. Hercules appeared from somewhere. He watched Owen walking around and grumbling for a moment, then walked over to me and gave me a quizzical look, head cocked to one side.
“Long story,” I said. “Just wait until I get the toast made and I’ll fill you in.” He sat down.
Once the hot chocolate and toast with peanut butter were made I pulled out a chair and gave Hercules the Cliff’s Notes version of the evening, while Owen worked on a little pile of kitty treats and added a grumbling comment from time to time.
I didn’t tell the cats about the little “moment” between Marcus and me in the driveway. It was an adrenaline comedown. It was tiredness. And it hadn’t meant anything.
It hadn’t.
I had a bath, spending a long time soaking in the hot, lavender scented water. Then I did an inventory of my bruises to see what colors they were now. They went from greenish yellow, through various shades of red to deep purple. I put a layer of Rebecca’s salve on my ankle and used the last of the cotton strips to wrap it.
I was too wired to sleep. So, apparently, was Owen. He wandered in and out of the bedroom, too restless to stay for more than a minute. Hercules, on the other hand, jumped up onto my lap the minute I sat down in the big chair by the window.
“There’s nothing I can do to help Maggie,” I told him, stroking his fur. “I’m going to have to leave things in Peter’s hands for now. But maybe I can do something to help Roma. She needs answers and I think I know where to get them.”
I leaned my head against the back of the chair and closed my eyes for a moment. “I’m going to have breakfast with Burtis Chapman.”
When I opened them again, Herc’s furry black-and-white face was just inches from mine. His way, I was guessing, of asking, “Have you lost your mind?”
29
At quarter to six I was in the truck on the way over to Fern’s Diner. I didn’t know if it was a good idea or a bad idea, mostly because I knew if I thought about it too long I might just talk myself out of going.
The diner wasn’t somewhere I went very often, although I had been a couple of times with Roma for meatloaf Tuesday. According to Roma, Fern’s had been restored about five or six years ago back to its 1950s glory, or as she liked to put it, “Just like the good old days only better.” The building was low and long, with windows on three sides, aglow with neon after dark. Inside there was the requisite jukebox, booths with red vinyl seats and a counter with gleaming chrome stools.
Burtis’s black truck was in the back parking lot and he was perched on a corner stool inside, elbows on the counter, head bent over a heavy, white china coffee mug. He was wearing a green plaid shirt and his Twins hat. His hands were massive, I noticed, big enough that he could probably squeeze my head between his thumb and index finger and make my brains come out my ears, but I tried not to think about that as I took the stool beside him.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Morning, Kathleen.” If he was surprised to see me, it didn’t show.
The waitress slid a mug in front of me and held up the coffeepot with an inquiring look on her face. At the same time she put a huge, oval dish in front of Burtis that could best be described as a heart attack on a plate.
I nodded and she poured my coffee. “What can I get you hon?” she asked. She was wearing red pedal pushers, a short-sleeved white shirt with—I kid you not—PEGGY SUE stitched over the left breast pocket and red-framed glasses. Her hair was in a gravity defying, bouffant updo. I eyed it, wondering if there was any way Rebecca could get my hair to do that.
My stomach rumbled, reminding me that not only had I not had any coffee yet, I hadn’t had any food, either. I dipped my head toward Burtis’s plate. “I’ll have what he’s having,” I said.
The waitress nodded and went through the swinging door into the kitchen.
I put cream and sugar in my mug and took a long sip. The coffee was strong and hot, just the way I liked it. I gave a small smile of pleasure and wrapped my hands around the cup. I could feel Burtis’s eyes on me and I turned my head to smile at him.
“What brings you out here so early?” he asked. “I thought you favored that little place by the water.”
“I came to talk to you,” I said.
That got me a smile. “Oh did you now?” he said. He speared a half a sausage and it disappeared into his mouth. “I’m kinda tied up with my breakfast at the moment.”
“Take your time,” I said, picking up my coffee again.
I’d finished about half my coffee when the waitress came back with my plate, as loaded as the one she’d brought for Burtis. There were scrambled eggs, sausage and bacon, fried potatoes with onions and tomato, and raisin toast. She topped up my coffee and headed down the counter to three men who had just walked in.
Burtis was watching me out of the corner of his eye. I picked up my fork and started eating. The eggs were fluffy, the bacon was crisp and I found myself wondering where they had gotten tomatoes that actually tasted like tomatoes at this time of year.
I was mopping up the last bits of potato and onion from my plate with a corner of bread when Burtis said, “What did you want to talk about?”
“Idris Blackthorne,” I said. “Harrison Taylor told me you were the one to ask what Idris was like back in the day.”
“Oh did he now?”
“He said you might be able to tell me about the way Idris did business.”
“Seems to me you’re friends with old Blackie’s granddaughter,” he said, staring down into his cup. “Why don’t you ask her?”
“Seems to me it would be bad manners to ask someone if her grandfather whacked a man over the head and buried his body out at Wisteria Hill,” I said, taking a long drink from my mug.
The words seemed to hang there for a moment and then Burtis laughed. “I guess it would at that,” he said.
I shifted sideways on my stool so I could look at him a little easier, leaning one elbow on the counter.
“Roma Davidson is my friend,” I said. “Tom Karlsson was her father and she wants to know how he ended up out in that field.”
“So you thought you’d poke your nose in and ask a few questions.”
“Pretty much.”
He gave another snort of laughter. “You’re honest girl, I’ll give you that.” Burtis wasn’t nearly as intimidating when he laughed.
The waitress came back and topped up our cups again. I added another packet of sugar to mine. “Burtis, I know Idris was…an entrepreneur. I know Tom worked for him and then suddenly he didn’t. What I don’t know is—”
“—whether Idris did have him whacked over the head and buried out behind the Henderson place,” he finished.
“Did he?”
He shook his head. “No. You see Idris had a reputation. It wasn’t what he did, it was what people thought he did that kept ’em in line, if you get my drift.”
I did. I poured a little cream into my coffee and stirred it. “I hear there used to be a fairly regular poker game happening out in those woods back then,” I said.
“There may have been.”
“I hear Tom Karlsson was a cheat.”
Burtis picked up his mug and drained it. “I don’t care for cheaters myself,” he said, putting his cup on the counter and sliding off the stool. “But I’ve heard that story. I also heard Tom broke a couple of fingers and had to give up playing cards.” He shrugged. “Those things happen sometimes.”
He pulled his keys out of his pocket. “One more thing. Back then, there was a road of sorts, rough but passable, that cut through those woods up there behind the Henderson place. If someone wanted to get back there they didn’t necessarily have to go past the house.” He tipped his hat to me and smiled. “You have a nice day, Kathleen. Come back and have breakfast again, sometime.”