Do or Diner: A Comfort Food Mystery Read Online Free PDF Page A

“Huh?”
    “Marvin Cogswell,” Max said. “He’s not okay.”
    The name sounded vaguely familiar.
    “Who? What happened?” My heart started to pound. This wasn’t good.
    “Marvin P. Cogswell the Third,” they said in unison.
    I stood frozen to the snow, wondering why my brain was frozen, too.
    “The health inspector!” Max added. “It looks like he had a heart attack.”
    The letter. The health inspector. Oh no!
    In the parking lot, the procession of emergency vehicles stopped, and a dozen people hustled up the front steps. Nancy held the door open for them, and they disappeared into the silver building.
    Clyde half pulled me up the diner stairs.
    “He’s a goner,” Max mumbled.
    “Goner?” Did anyone actually say goner anymore?
    “Dead,” Max blurted.
    Now
that
penetrated my brain.
    Nancy, the waitress, nodded solemnly to me. I nodded back. “Where?”
    “Kitchen,” she said.
    I glanced around the dining room. The patrons were craning their necks to watch the action. Somewere on their cell phones, no doubt passing along the news.
    A tall, thin deputy with rosy cheeks stood in front of the double doors that led to the kitchen, blocking my way. He had twinkly blue eyes, but they weren’t as blue as Ty’s, and he reeked of my grandfather’s favorite aftershave, Old Spice.
    He looked down at me and suddenly seemed formidable.
    “I-I’m the owner. Trixie Matkowski.”
    He finally smiled. “Nice to meet you. I’m Vern McCoy. I’m a fan of the Bullet’s meat loaf. Matter of fact, you’ll always find the entire Sandy Harbor sheriff’s department—all three of us—here on Tuesday night for the meat loaf special.”
    I pulled off the wet mitten on my right hand and we shook. As soon as I could function, I’d have to make a note to keep the Tuesday meat loaf special for the entire Sandy Harbor sheriff’s department—all three of them.
    Deputy McCoy opened the door for me. “Don’t touch anything.”
    I wondered why he’d said that. It was probably just a cop thing.
    The kitchen was packed with official-looking people. Juanita was crying, not very quietly, by the back door of the kitchen away from the circle that had gathered around the prep table. My former lunch date, Ty Brisco, standing a head taller than the others, had an arm around her.
    An EMT shook her head, then bent over to take something out of a bright orange duffel bag. I hada clear view of a man in a camel-colored dress coat sitting on the top rung of the kitchen’s step stool in front of the stainless steel prep table.
    It was the same step stool that Juanita had stood on earlier to escape the (probably) imaginary mouse.
    The man was slumped over with his face in what looked like a plate of the dinner special—pork and scalloped potatoes. He still had a fork in his hand.
    But he wasn’t moving. It was then I realized the EMT was zipping up her bag, not looking for something in it.
    Poor Marvin P. Cogswell the Third, health inspector, was obviously dead.
    I guessed that Juanita had given him a plate of the evening’s special, and I hoped that he’d enjoyed his last meal.
    The pork and scalloped potatoes was originally my great-grandmother’s recipe, and my family’s favorite dish. Uncle Porky adapted the recipe to make large quantities for the diner.
    Deputy Ty Brisco was writing furiously in his notebook. Juanita was crying and dabbing at her eyes and nose with a wadded-up tissue.
    “We’ll talk again later, Juanita,” Ty said. “At the sheriff’s office.” Ty hugged her tight to his side, and she wailed louder.
    Juanita met my gaze and sniffed. She rushed over to where I was standing and stomped her foot. “I quit.
No más
. No more!”
    “Juanita, this isn’t your fault, and—” A manhaving a heart attack next to her was far worse than a phantom mouse.
    She stomped her other foot. “No! I quit. I can’t take it anymore!”
    “Go home and rest,” I suggested softly, taking her arm and escorting her out the