Mistletoe Man - China Bayles 09 Page 10

  The Nueces Street Diner ("Best Down-Home Cookin' in Texas!") belongs to Lila Jennings and her daughter Docia, who take turns cooking and waiting the counter. A few years back, Lila and her husband, Ralph, bought an old Missouri and Pacific dining car and hauled it to the vacant lot kitty-cornered across from the bank. Ralph always said that he parked it there so the bank could see what he was doing with its money. He died before the note was paid off, but Lila and Docia have soldiered on, with the help of Docia's daughter Lucy. They've done well enough to add a larger kitchen on the back and an entryway on the front and spiff up the old diner with a red Formica counter and fifties-style chrome-and-red tables and chairs. The walls are covered with Texas memorabilia. (My favorite is the framed clipping from the Dallas Morning News announcing that three women lawyers had just been appointed to a special Texas Supreme Court—the first all-women high court in the United States. It is dated January 1, 192S, the same month that Ma Ferguson, Texas's first woman governor, was inaugurated.)

  There were three or four regulars at the long counter, but the tables were still mostly empty when I walked in and hung my coat on the peg by the door. Somebody had put up a miniature artificial tree and a lifesize cardboard cutout of Santa Claus, and "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas" was playing over the loudspeaker. A large clump of mistletoe, one of the prettiest I'd seen, hung over the swinging door that led to the kitchen, and red and green paper streamers were draped around the glass pie shelves. Lila and Docia had gone in for Christmas in a big way.

  Lila was waitressing today, which meant that either Docia or Lucy was cooking. According to the menu, which is posted on a blackboard behind the counter, I had my choice of meatloaf plate, fried catfish, or chicken and dumplings. Today's sides were mustard greens, deep-fried corn on the cob, and black-eyed peas, and either lemon or coconut pie for dessert. I contemplated this list happily. Out of regard for my cholesterol count, I have lunch here only once every couple of weeks, but when I do, I go whole hog.

  I sat down at a table by the front window and Lila came over, pulling her order book out of the pocket of her pale green nylon uniform. A perky little white hat was perched on her bleached blond hair, which she rolls under like one of the Andrews Sisters. In that getup, she looks right at home among the fifties fixtures.

  "Where's yer better half today?" she asked, taking a pencil out of her hair.

  "He's doing a little work for the sheriff," I said incautiously. "Have you got plenty of meatloaf?"

  "Enough fer you," Lila said, and scrawled a big ML on the order pad. She tilted her head, her eyes bright. "I'll bet they're out investigatin' poor Carl's accident."

  I sighed, wishing I'd had the sense to keep my mouth shut. But Lila had no doubt already heard the news. In Pecan Springs, gossip is like a deadly virus, so communicable that nothing will stop it.

  Lila pulled down the corners of her lipsticked mouth. "Carl was Lucy's boyfriend, y'know."

  "He was?" I said, in some surprise. Carl Swenson was a loner, and Sheila's comment about essence of goat had been on the mark. The idea that the man might have been romantically involved with someone had never crossed my mind. But now that I thought about it, they seemed to be a pretty good match: a pair of misfits who might have found consolation in each other. Lila's granddaughter is not particularly attractive—tall, skinny, and graceless, with dark, stringy hair and a half-furtive, hangdog look about her. She might be prettier (and happier) if she'd pay some attention to herself, but she didn't seem to think it was worth the trouble.

  Lila nodded. "They been seein' each fer, oh, near a month now. Lucy was 'spectin' a proposal." She jerked her head in the direction of the mistletoe. "He brung that, you know. Gave her a big kiss under it, too."

  "Give Lucy my condolences," I said. I tried to conjure up a mental picture of Carl Swenson and Lucy sharing a kiss under the mistletoe, but it wouldn't come.

  Lila's eyes darkened. "Yeah, the little gal's really grievin'. She's back there in the kitchen right now, cryin' so's she can hardly cook. First batch of meatloaf, she left out the tomato sauce." She made a small grimace. "Came out lookin' real funny an' gray. Don't taste half-bad, though, if you put catsup on it. Or salsa." She picked up the salsa jar and inspected it to make sure it was full. "Or you can wait fer the next batch. Ten minutes, mebbe."

  I don't care much for gray meatloaf, and I'm leery of Lila's salsa. It'll burn holes in your tongue. I didn't want to wait, either. "Guess I don't feel much like meatloaf today," I said. "Think I'll go with the chicken and dumplings."

  Lila leaned over, nearly overpowering me with the scent of her Evening in Paris. "And it weren't no ak-se-dent, neither," she whispered. "Carl was kilt on purpose."

  No accident? I felt the hair on my neck prickle. "Who says?"

  "Lucy says, that's who," Lila said. She straightened, her eyes slitted suspiciously. "There was somethin' about that man made me nervous. Somethin' strange goin' on there. No job, no vis'ble means o'support, 'cept fer mistletoe and goats, and whut's that amount to?" She made a scornful noise, and answered her own question. "A hill o' beans, that's whut. I told her she didn't have no bidness with him, that he'd use her up and toss her out, but she wudn't listen." Lila made a scornful noise. "Romance. That's all the girls think about these days. Show 'em a good, solid man, such as Orville Pennyman, who works at the Fina station and brings a good paycheck home to his mama ever' week, an' whut do they do? They go runnin' after the nearest rat."

  We were getting off the subject. "Lucy thinks that Carl Swenson had enemies?"

  "A passel," Lila said with relish. "People who'd love to see him done in. Leastways, that's what Lucy told her mom. Her 'n' Docia both live with me now, you know. Saves money that way. Lot cheaper than for all three of us to be payin' rent."

  A man at a window table, a regular, lifted his coffee cup and Lila gave him a curt nod. He put the cup down with a complaining sigh, but he knew the rules. When Lila gets involved in a conversation with one of her customers, the others have to wait. I know—it's happened to me.

  "I don't suppose Lucy mentioned who they were," I remarked. "Swenson's enemies, I mean."

  Lila tapped her pencil against her teeth. "Well, fer starters, there's that neighbor of his, that Turtle woman. Lucy says she threatened to give him a good dose o' buckshot next time she saw him, on accounta them goats. Maybe she figgered it'ud be safer to hit him a good clip with that old maroon Mercury she drives. Safer fer her, I mean. That way, he couldn't shoot back."

  A maroon Mercury, huh? I made a mental note to ask Blackie whether he had taken a look at Mrs. Tuttle's car. "That's interesting," I said encouragingly. "Who else?"

  Lila frowned. "Well, there's Bob Godwin, just a fer instance, though you don't need to go tellin' him I said so. Him and Carl got into a fight over some money Bob claimed was owed him. Wouldn't put it past Bob to try and collect. And you know what a temper that man has." She shook her head with a disapproving tch-tch.

  "Now, Lila," I said. I didn't put much stock in this charge, since Bean's Bar and Grill, which Bob owns, is one of Lila's chief competitors. She's always finding some way to run him down.

  "Whut d'ya mean, 'Now, Lila'?" she asked haughtily. "You ain't seen Bob when he's got his back up about something? He's hell on wheels, believe you me. Didn't you read in the paper last week about him gettin' into that fist fight with Harley Moses? He ain't got red hair for nothin'." The outside door opened and she looked up. "Well, if it ain't Mr. Hotshot Hibler, the editoor of our very fine newspaper, who printed that story his very own self."

  Hark peeled off his windbreaker, pulled out the chair next to me and sat down, brushing raindrops out of his dark hair. "Hello, Lila," he said in a mild tone. "Kinda damp out there, isn't it? Hi, China."

  I frowned, recalling what Sheila had said about Hark and Lynn Hughes. It was entirely possible that Wade's return had nothing to do with Ruby's recent behavior, and that her weirdness was due to her problems with Hark. But the guy is my boss—I edit the we
ekly Home and Garden section for the Enterprise—and we've been friends for a couple of years, so I wasn't going to jump down his throat. I intended to find out what was going on, however.

  "Hello, Hark," I said. "How's life?"

  Hark began rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. "Not too shabby," he replied. "You doin' okay?"

  Pointedly ignoring Hark, Lila scratched out ML on her order book and wrote down CD instead. "What'd'ya want with yer chicken and dumplin's?"

  "Mustard greens," I said. "And deep-fried corn on the cob." I smiled in anticipation. "And coconut pie."

  She stuck the pencil into her hair. "Be right out," she said, and turned to walk away.

  "Hey, Lila," Hark said, raising his voice. "I'll have the meatloaf plate."

  "Lucy left out the tomato sauce," I said in a warning tone. "She's grieving for Carl Swenson."

  Hark's dark eyebrows went up. "Lucy was a friend of Swenson's?"

  Lila wheeled around. "And whut's wrong with that?" She put her fists on her hips. "Mebbe you think it's a crime fer two people to fall in love and get married and practice fam'ly values, Mr. Newspaper Editoor. Mebbe you'd rather print dirt about dope and preverts an' such, so's you can sell more papers."

  "Carl Swenson and Lucy were marriedT' Hark asked, even more surprised. "How the hell did I miss that?"

  "Lila says Lucy was expecting a proposal," I said quickly, forestalling one of Lila's snappish replies. I don't understand why Hark eats at the Diner, given the way Lila criticizes him. She thinks that the Enterprise pays too much attention to crime, which Arnold Seidensticker, the newspaper's former owner, swept under the rug. Arnold saw the Enterprise as a family newspaper, so he printed stories that Dad could read aloud to his wife and children at the dinner table every Wednesday, when the paper came out.

  But Hark bought the newspaper from the Seidensticker family in the fall, and things have changed. To Hark's way of thinking, his readers have a right to the truth, however disagreeable. Moreover, the Enterprise is now a daily. As a result, Pecan Springs is waking from its self-satisfied trance to the startled realization that it is not the squeaky clean village it thought it was. It is just like every other small town, populated by people who make mistakes, accidentally go wrong, or are intentionally corrupt. These imperfect people probably don't outnumber the rest of the populace, of course—it's just that errors, accidents, and corruption naturally seem to demand a certain amount of press attention, and Hark is happy to oblige.

  Not everybody is pleased by this new journalistic realism, of course. Those who object write letters to the editor, threatening to cancel their subscription so they won't have to read that the mayor was forced to resign because of a sex scandal or that the town's favorite dentist had abducted his granddaughter. (Both events made headlines in September.) But Hark says that it pays to tell the truth, even when it doesn't taste good in your mouth. And he must be right. For every cancellation, there are two new subscribers.

  Lila pushed her lips in and out, considering. There was a calculating gleam in her eye. "I reckon you'll put the story on the front page," she said judiciously. "Poor Carl bein' hit an' run an' all."

  Hark nodded. "I suppose you'd rather we didn't cover it at all, but—"

  "You can have Lucy's high school grad-u-ashun photo," Lila said. "It's got a gold frame on it, though, an' glass, so you got to be careful. I don't want it broke."

  Hark blinked. "Lucy's ... photo?"

  "Well," Lila said, "I just thought that since she's the grievin' fee-an-say, you'd want to put her picture in the paper, alongside his. Human int'rest, y'know." She smiled, showing her gold tooth. "Be sure and put in that she works at the Diner, 'longside her mother and grandmother. It won't hurt fer us to get a little publicity."

  "Oh, right," Hark said. "A little publicity." Then, capitalizing on Lila's change of attitude, he added quickly,

  "While you're here, I'll have what China's having, except I'll take black-eyed peas. And lemon pie."

  "You got it, Mr. Editoor," Lila said cheerfully, and sashayed off, ignoring the man at the window table, feebly hoisting his coffee cup.

  "Breaking news," I said, grinning.

  "Sheesh," Hark muttered. "I don't believe Swenson was involved with Lucy. She's not—well, not his type."

  "You can't believe everything you hear," I said, and segued neatly into the subject at the top of my mind. "I just heard about Lynn Hughes, for instance." I gave him a meaningful look.

  Hark looked confused. "What's Lynn Hughes got to do with Swenson and Lucy?"

  "Nothing. I heard that you took her out to dinner. At Crandall's. And that you two were exceedingly cozy."

  Hark shook his head disgustedly. "Was it Sheila who told you that? I saw her and Blackie come in. She gave me the evil eye."

  "I was just wondering," I continued, "whether Ruby knows about Lynn."

  Hark frowned. "Ruby? Sure she knows. The restaurant was her idea."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I'd been courting Lynn for a couple of weeks," Hark said patiently. "When she finally said yes, Ruby suggested that Crandall's would be a great place to celebrate. She was going to join us, but at the last minute she had to go to San Antonio."

  I shook my head. "I can't believe this, Hark," I said numbly. "Lynn Hughes? When's the big day?"

  "Not until the first of the year. Lynn's got to stay on until Charlie finds a replacement."

  "You mean she's leaving Charlie?" He'd be madder than steamed jackrabbit. He'd put a lot of effort into training that girl, and he'd bragged over and over about how great she was. And now she was quitting to get married.

  Hark gave me a strange look. "Well, of course she's leaving Charlie. How else could she come to work for me?"

  My mouth dropped open. "Work for you?"

  "What in hell did you think she was going to do for me? Sign on as my mistress? She's going to be my assistant." Hark grinned triumphantly. "Charlie-boy is so mad, he could spit nails. But I did it fair and square. I made her an offer, took her to lunch a time or two to explain what's involved with the job, and told her to discuss it with Charlie. I thought maybe he'd up her salary to where I couldn't compete. But she's got a journalism degree, and even ol' Charlie has to agree that it's a natural fit, so he let her go." He grinned widely. "And now she's all mine."

  "I see," I said, feeling abashed. "So Ruby doesn't have any reason to be upset with you." It was more a statement than a question.

  "Why should she?" Hark asked. "Which doesn't mean she isn't." He leaned back in his chair, frowning. There was a coffee stain on his loosely knotted green tie and he was missing a button on his shirt. Otherwise, he looked good. Hark is no movie star, but he's lost forty pounds over the last year, including two spare chins and a roll of flab around his waist.

  I sighed. "You too, huh? Join the club."

  He raised one eyebrow. "But you're her best friend. You mean, she's been acting weird with you?"

  "Weird to the max, as Brian says. I've been trying to call her all weekend, with no success. So this morning I stopped at her house. The place was locked up and her suitcase is gone. The house is neat and tidy and so clean you could eat off the floors. She—"

  "Clean?" Hark asked in amazement. "Neat and tidy?" Both eyebrows shot up. "I don't want to sound judgmental, but those are not adjectives that I'd use to describe our Ruby's living quarters—under normal circumstances, anyway. She's wonderfully creative, but a housekeeper she ain't."

  "I know," I said sadly. "The place looks empty and lonesome. However, while I was there, Wade Wilcox called."

  Lila appeared with a tray and began to shuffle plates across the table. "Lucy says she don't want you to have her grad-u-ashun picture," she said grimly. "She says she don't want her private life splashed all over the newspaper."

  Good for Lucy, I thought. Maybe there was hope for her after all.

  Hark looked down at his plate, then over at mine. "I thought we were getting chicken and dumplings."

  Lila was
grim-faced. "Lucy's grievin' so much that she forgot to put the bakin' powder into the dumplin's. But them biscuits 're just as good, even if they are left over from breakfast. Spoon a little chicken gravy over 'em, and yer mouth won't know the difference."

  "I knew I should have gone to Bean's for chicken-fried," Hark said with a long-suffering look.

  "Then you wouldn't of got the scoop on Carl and Lucy," Lila snapped, "even if you can't have her picture for yer dirty old rag." She stalked away.

  Hark picked up his fork. "So Wilcox called, huh? What did he want?"

  "He wanted to talk to Ruby, but he settled for me. He says he's worried about her too. He'd like to patch things up." I was less tentative about saying this now that I knew that Hark wasn't the source of Ruby's heartache.

  Hark began peppering his chicken. "Yeah, sure," he said sarcastically. "What Wilcox really wants is to get his greasy hands on Ruby's lottery winnings. You know what he told her? That she should tell the lottery people to change her payment schedule. Instead of getting it monthly, like she does now, she should get it all in one lump sum and give it to him to invest. The guy's got a lotta nerve." He paused, frowning. "You say her suitcase is gone?"

  I looked straight at him. "Do you know where she is?"

  He met my eyes. "I wish I did," he said quietly. "I wish she trusted me enough to tell me what's bothering her. I wish—" He swallowed painfully, and his mouth twisted. "Lord, China, I love that woman. I want to marry her, take care of her. I want to make things good for her."

  "Have you told her this?"

  'Told her!" Hark exploded angrily. "Hell, yes, I've told her. Over and over again. For a while, I thought she might be on the verge of saying yes, but now she says we should stop seeing one another. She won't give me an explanation, either."

  "It's not Wade, is it?" I asked.

  "I don't think so," Hark said. "She's made two or three trips to Austin and San Antonio lately, one of them an overnight." He poked at his biscuit with a fork. "If you ask me, she's seeing somebody else. A doctor, maybe. I walked in on her when she was leaving a message for him to call her."