spinning an excuse about needing the funds for the dig. This brought a warning from the manager along with the cash. She decided a nice piece of pie would be worth the trip so she went down to the little restaurant.
She was half way through her great-tasting blueberry pie when she became conscious of the fact that the little restaurant was unusually quiet. This small hub of meet-and-greet, where all the local gossip was passed faster than the speed of light—well as fast as human mouths—was quiet. There were a lot of tables with men as well as a few women with them. The little gossip being said was in hushed tones. Something tragic had touched this small town.
Diane lost her appetite, left a tip, then went up to the checkout counter by the front window. She was counting out ones when her eyes wandered out the window, looking towards the law office that was her next stop. Except for the clean window that had the simple words on it, the firm was no longer there.
What she was seeing was new plywood covering most of the front of the building, tucked between other, taller brick structures. The area not covered was scorched, with long black streaks radiating from beneath the clean plywood.
Diane heard the waitress clear her throat as she waited for payment. She looked back over the ones and told the girl to keep the small change. The girl put the change in the cup on the counter.
She nodded her head at the mess across the street. “What happened over there?”
“Oh, I forgot, you’ve been out at the college. Poor Mr. Bruce. Must have been a gas leak. No one knows why he was working so late. Fell asleep. Everything inside was destroyed, even the stuff in the so-called fireproof cabinet. It just blew up and when it fell back, it split. Fireman told me that.” The girl was talking slowly in a low voice so that the others wouldn’t hear.
“The mortician says they have only pieces of him for burial. The town is in a mess. Lots of important papers for everyone are now lost. We all loved Mr. Bruce. We have these damn outsider investigators asking too many questions.” She looked around. “Does them no good. No one talks to outsiders.” Then she was gone to refill coffee cups.
Diane was glad the waitress was busy. It gave her a moment to lean against the counter, to catch her breath and to find strength in her legs so that she could start walking. She got back in her jeep. She started to drive east with no thought of where she was going.
Then, it dawned on her what she was doing. She was running again. This time she was running from two, the Black Ghost and an Egomaniac who wanted to live forever. Okay, she had a vehicle she could sell for less than it was worth in some back alley. She had the money she had drawn from the bank. She had run with less. She had the Internet Bank, yet even that was risky. It would be left alone until some emergency, then used only once.
Chapter Seven
Brandy was a new identity for Beth but it fit the woman with the multiple, tiny, long blond braids scrubbing the old bar as if she could erase the years of spilt liquor, sweat and unmentionable other moisture that had drained into the wood. It was past closing time. The front door was locked. The staff, what little that amounted to, was either cleaning up the room or cleaning up themselves, depending on their jobs.
The bar sweeps were wiping tables, picking up chairs and scattering new straw on the floor. The waitresses were counting their tips. The ones who would help out were lining up the last of the mismatched cups and glasses. The whores were in back, taking showers in the tepid water, two women with one young man, all tired, but with money to share with the boss. They, like the waitresses, were allowed to keep their tips. The funds they shared with the bar were kept by the barkeep. She tallied the income of each, making sure the shares were equal and fair. In the year she had been running the bar, there had been no
She was half way through her great-tasting blueberry pie when she became conscious of the fact that the little restaurant was unusually quiet. This small hub of meet-and-greet, where all the local gossip was passed faster than the speed of light—well as fast as human mouths—was quiet. There were a lot of tables with men as well as a few women with them. The little gossip being said was in hushed tones. Something tragic had touched this small town.
Diane lost her appetite, left a tip, then went up to the checkout counter by the front window. She was counting out ones when her eyes wandered out the window, looking towards the law office that was her next stop. Except for the clean window that had the simple words on it, the firm was no longer there.
What she was seeing was new plywood covering most of the front of the building, tucked between other, taller brick structures. The area not covered was scorched, with long black streaks radiating from beneath the clean plywood.
Diane heard the waitress clear her throat as she waited for payment. She looked back over the ones and told the girl to keep the small change. The girl put the change in the cup on the counter.
She nodded her head at the mess across the street. “What happened over there?”
“Oh, I forgot, you’ve been out at the college. Poor Mr. Bruce. Must have been a gas leak. No one knows why he was working so late. Fell asleep. Everything inside was destroyed, even the stuff in the so-called fireproof cabinet. It just blew up and when it fell back, it split. Fireman told me that.” The girl was talking slowly in a low voice so that the others wouldn’t hear.
“The mortician says they have only pieces of him for burial. The town is in a mess. Lots of important papers for everyone are now lost. We all loved Mr. Bruce. We have these damn outsider investigators asking too many questions.” She looked around. “Does them no good. No one talks to outsiders.” Then she was gone to refill coffee cups.
Diane was glad the waitress was busy. It gave her a moment to lean against the counter, to catch her breath and to find strength in her legs so that she could start walking. She got back in her jeep. She started to drive east with no thought of where she was going.
Then, it dawned on her what she was doing. She was running again. This time she was running from two, the Black Ghost and an Egomaniac who wanted to live forever. Okay, she had a vehicle she could sell for less than it was worth in some back alley. She had the money she had drawn from the bank. She had run with less. She had the Internet Bank, yet even that was risky. It would be left alone until some emergency, then used only once.
Chapter Seven
Brandy was a new identity for Beth but it fit the woman with the multiple, tiny, long blond braids scrubbing the old bar as if she could erase the years of spilt liquor, sweat and unmentionable other moisture that had drained into the wood. It was past closing time. The front door was locked. The staff, what little that amounted to, was either cleaning up the room or cleaning up themselves, depending on their jobs.
The bar sweeps were wiping tables, picking up chairs and scattering new straw on the floor. The waitresses were counting their tips. The ones who would help out were lining up the last of the mismatched cups and glasses. The whores were in back, taking showers in the tepid water, two women with one young man, all tired, but with money to share with the boss. They, like the waitresses, were allowed to keep their tips. The funds they shared with the bar were kept by the barkeep. She tallied the income of each, making sure the shares were equal and fair. In the year she had been running the bar, there had been no
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