daydreamers, outcasts, and kooks. And I just love the place. And I just love Speckley’s. I’ve been going to that wonderful old diner since my college days.
Bob found a parking space right in front. But he couldn’t find any quarters in his pocket for the meter. “It’s on me,” I said.
Inside, he announced his name to the waitress. “Averill.”
She squinted at him the way James squints at me when he’s trying to decipher the strange sounds coming out of my mouth. Finally she figured it out—or at least thought she had. “I don’t think we got any of them,” she said. “But I’ve got some Tylenol if that would help.”
It was Bob’s turn to imitate James’ squint. I came to the rescue. “He doesn’t have a headache,” I told the waitress. “He has a reservation.”
“Oh, he’s the one,” she cackled. “We all thought that was a prank call.” She grabbed a pair of menus from the counter. “Right this way, Mr. Averill. Your table’s waiting.” She gave us a booth by the eight-foot plastic bipedal cow statue drinking a chocolate milkshake.
I talked Bob into ordering the diner’s legendary house special—meatloaf sandwich, au gratin potatoes on the side. I told the waitress I’d have hot tea. Bob pointed at the plastic cow and said, “I’ll have what she’s drinking.”
Good gravy I was nervous. I decided to take the bull by the horns. “Bob,” I said, “I know why we’re here.”
“You do?”
“Of course I do! Now shoot!”
He cringed. “Shoot? Don’t you think that word is maybe a bit inappropriate under the circumstances?”
I attacked. “Come on, Bob. Give me your best shot. Then I’ll give you mine. Then we’ll enjoy the meatloaf.”
He dug his elbows into the Formica. Propped his chin on his fist. Looked me straight in the eyes. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
“My retirement. What else would I be talking about?”
His face withered until it looked like one of those old cooking onions I keep on top of my refrigerator. “Oh no, Maddy Sprowls—you can’t retire now. I need you.”
It was my turn to look him straight in the eyes. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
“Eddie French.”
“That cab driver they arrested? What does that have to do with me?”
The waitress brought our beverages. Bob pounded the wrapper off his straw. “Nothing to do with you—not yet, anyway—but unfortunately it does have something to do with me.”
I zeroed in on the most pertinent part of his answer. “Not yet, anyway?”
He drilled his straw into his milkshake. Took a long suck. “I need your help with something, Maddy.”
I finally knew where he was headed. “Absolutely not!”
He grabbed his temples. Grunted in pain. At first I thought he had an aneurysm in his brain that just popped. But when he started gasping like a beached fish, I realized he was just having a brain freeze from the milkshake. I laid into him without pity. “I’m not a detective, Bob. I’m a damn librarian.”
The pain on his face slowly subsided. The self-confident, always-in-command Bob Averill I’d known for fifteen years was gone. “It seems that Eddie French is the worthless older brother of Tippy’s sorority sister,” he said.
Tippy was Bob’s wife. Several years younger than him, trim and pretty. A real ballbuster. Bob would still be writing high school sports at that little weekly in Coshocton County if she hadn’t rescued his dormant potential from the dustbin of happiness. “And this sorority sister knows her worthless brother couldn’t possibly have murdered Violeta Bell?”
Bob took a much more modest sip from his shake. “She was on the phone half the night crying to Tippy about it. Which meant Tippy was crying to me the other half.”
“And now you’re crying to me?”
“You know how irascible Tippy can be.”
I did know how irascible Tippy could be. I also knew it would be smart to stick to the facts.
Bob found a parking space right in front. But he couldn’t find any quarters in his pocket for the meter. “It’s on me,” I said.
Inside, he announced his name to the waitress. “Averill.”
She squinted at him the way James squints at me when he’s trying to decipher the strange sounds coming out of my mouth. Finally she figured it out—or at least thought she had. “I don’t think we got any of them,” she said. “But I’ve got some Tylenol if that would help.”
It was Bob’s turn to imitate James’ squint. I came to the rescue. “He doesn’t have a headache,” I told the waitress. “He has a reservation.”
“Oh, he’s the one,” she cackled. “We all thought that was a prank call.” She grabbed a pair of menus from the counter. “Right this way, Mr. Averill. Your table’s waiting.” She gave us a booth by the eight-foot plastic bipedal cow statue drinking a chocolate milkshake.
I talked Bob into ordering the diner’s legendary house special—meatloaf sandwich, au gratin potatoes on the side. I told the waitress I’d have hot tea. Bob pointed at the plastic cow and said, “I’ll have what she’s drinking.”
Good gravy I was nervous. I decided to take the bull by the horns. “Bob,” I said, “I know why we’re here.”
“You do?”
“Of course I do! Now shoot!”
He cringed. “Shoot? Don’t you think that word is maybe a bit inappropriate under the circumstances?”
I attacked. “Come on, Bob. Give me your best shot. Then I’ll give you mine. Then we’ll enjoy the meatloaf.”
He dug his elbows into the Formica. Propped his chin on his fist. Looked me straight in the eyes. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
“My retirement. What else would I be talking about?”
His face withered until it looked like one of those old cooking onions I keep on top of my refrigerator. “Oh no, Maddy Sprowls—you can’t retire now. I need you.”
It was my turn to look him straight in the eyes. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
“Eddie French.”
“That cab driver they arrested? What does that have to do with me?”
The waitress brought our beverages. Bob pounded the wrapper off his straw. “Nothing to do with you—not yet, anyway—but unfortunately it does have something to do with me.”
I zeroed in on the most pertinent part of his answer. “Not yet, anyway?”
He drilled his straw into his milkshake. Took a long suck. “I need your help with something, Maddy.”
I finally knew where he was headed. “Absolutely not!”
He grabbed his temples. Grunted in pain. At first I thought he had an aneurysm in his brain that just popped. But when he started gasping like a beached fish, I realized he was just having a brain freeze from the milkshake. I laid into him without pity. “I’m not a detective, Bob. I’m a damn librarian.”
The pain on his face slowly subsided. The self-confident, always-in-command Bob Averill I’d known for fifteen years was gone. “It seems that Eddie French is the worthless older brother of Tippy’s sorority sister,” he said.
Tippy was Bob’s wife. Several years younger than him, trim and pretty. A real ballbuster. Bob would still be writing high school sports at that little weekly in Coshocton County if she hadn’t rescued his dormant potential from the dustbin of happiness. “And this sorority sister knows her worthless brother couldn’t possibly have murdered Violeta Bell?”
Bob took a much more modest sip from his shake. “She was on the phone half the night crying to Tippy about it. Which meant Tippy was crying to me the other half.”
“And now you’re crying to me?”
“You know how irascible Tippy can be.”
I did know how irascible Tippy could be. I also knew it would be smart to stick to the facts.
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