Murder at the Falls Read Online Free PDF Page A

He performed one of his songs for us out in the parking lot: ‘The All-Night Diner Blues.’” He laughed at the memory.
    “He advertises his tapes in my magazine,” Tom said.
    “He was a nice guy,” said Andriopoulis. “I play the tape sometimes in my car. I like the ‘All-Night Diner Blues’ one.” He started to sing the first line, but was interrupted by the reappearance of his daughter with their orders.
    “Tell me,” said Andriopoulis, leaning forward to address Tom and Charlotte, as Patty set the plates down. “Have you ever had a hot Texas wiener before?” He pointed his fork at Randy. “I know you have.”
    “I have,” said Tom. “I was here last week.”
    “Aha,” Andriopoulis said. “Undercover.”
    “I asked for the boss, but you weren’t around.” He looked over at Charlotte. “But Miss Graham hasn’t had the pleasure.”
    “I hope you won’t mind if I ask what you think,” Andriopoulis said to Charlotte. “Please, go right ahead.”
    “Not at all,” Charlotte replied as she bit into the wiener, which was heaped with a pale orange sauce. To her amazement, she found it quite good. It wasn’t hot, but rather a little sweet, with an unusual spice.
    “John takes his work very seriously,” said Randy as Andriopoulis stared at Charlotte, eagerly awaiting her appraisal. “If the peaks on the lemon meringue pie don’t stand up just right, he has the pastry chef do it over.”
    “Damned right I do. No sense in doing it if you’re not going to do it right. But I don’t only pay attention to the way a pie looks. A lot of those pies in the cases at other diners look great, but they taste like cardboard. Our pies not only look great, they taste great too.” He turned his attention back to Charlotte. “Well?” he said.
    “It’s delicious,” she replied, after swallowing her first bite. “It’s like a chili dog,” she added. “But it’s not really a chili sauce, is it? What’s the secret ingredient, cinnamon?”
    “Ha! What did I tell you about the customer’s ability to detect the subtleties? It is cinnamon, as well as other spices that I’m not at liberty to divulge on account of their being a trade secret. Cinnamon isn’t exactly a common spice in Tex-Mex cooking, but”—he shrugged—“my daddy came from Athens, not from Amarillo.” He shifted his attention to his copy of Diner Monthly . “This looks very interesting,” he said, tapping the cover. “May I keep it?”
    “Sure,” said Tom, beaming. “If you want to subscribe, there’s a form inside that you can fill out.” Reaching in his briefcase, he pulled out a stack of sample issues. “Here, take these for your customers.”
    As a result of his true-crime books, Tom had become, if not a millionaire, then close to it. He had earned numerous awards, and was much sought after on the talk-show circuit. But it wasn’t true-crime reporting that was closest to his heart; it was this modest eight-page periodical, whose circulation was now approaching forty thousand.
    “Thanks,” said Andriopoulis, rising. “I’ve got to get to work.” He reached out to shake their hands. “It was nice meeting you. Come back again some time.” He pointed a finger at Tom. “If you ever get around to doing that book, I’d appreciate your putting us on the cover.”
    “I’ll think about it,” said Tom.
    “Randy here has done some great paintings of us.”
    The artist had poked a rift in the wall of the little crater in his mashed potatoes that held the gravy, and was totally absorbed in watching the gravy run out onto his slab of meat loaf.
    “Speaking of which …” said Tom, as John shuffled off.
    “Yeah, let’s get down to business,” agreed Randy, turning his attention back to his companions. He soaked up the fugitive gravy with a roll, then popped it into his mouth. “Are you sure you want me to do this? Because there are a lot of other artists painting diners these days. Sometimes it seems as if every other