Copycat by Erica Spindler Page B

B.”
    â€œWhich was?”
    â€œCall you at work. I wasn’t thrilled by plan B.”
    â€œYou have something to hide, Lance Castrogiovanni? A skeleton or two in your closet?”
    â€œDon’t we all?” He laughed. “Actually, as long as it’s confession time, cops give me the willies. Except for you, of course.”
    â€œI’m honored, I guess.”
    â€œI know an open-all-night diner that serves the best homemade cream pies in the world.”
    â€œThat is so not Italian,” she teased.
    â€œExactly.” He held out a hand. “My treat.”
    â€œIn that case, you’ve got a deal.”
    They agreed to each take their own car. The diner, appropriately named the Main Street Diner, was located at the corner of North Main and Auburn Streets, an area that had fallen on lean times.
    As they entered the brightly lit establishment, the woman behind the counter—middle-aged with a net over her gray bob—greeted Lance by name. When she did, a man peered out from the kitchen.
    â€œLance, buddy, where’ve you been?”
    â€œWorking. A good thing, by the way. Keeps me in pie.”
    â€œWho’s that with you?”
    â€œA friend. Mary Catherine Riggio, Bob Meuller. His wife Betty. Mary Catherine’s a cop, so be nice.”
    â€œI’m always nice,” he said.
    Betty snorted. “More like, always crusty. That’s why I keep him in back.”
    Just then a group of rowdy young people stumbled into the restaurant. M.C. could tell they were all about three sheets to the wind—except for the designated driver, who looked irritated. She kept jiggling her car keys and rolling her eyes.
    Lance waited until the kids had picked a table, then chose the one farthest from them.
    â€œYou must live near here,” M.C. said.
    â€œI do. Just up the block. Eat here at least once a day. Sometimes more.”
    â€œThose the owners?”
    â€œYup. Couldn’t find reliable night help, so they pull the shift themselves. Nice people. Down to earth.”
    â€œThey seem that way.”
    He handed her a menu. “Everything’s good, by the way.”
    â€œI don’t even have to look. If I don’t try this famous cream pie, I’ll be thinking about it for the next month. Which one do you suggest?”
    He couldn’t recommend only one, he said, so he ordered one of each: coconut, chocolate, strawberry and lemon, along with two cups of coffee. When Betty brought them out, M.C. made a sound of surprise: they were huge, at least six inches high.
    â€œYou looked hungry,” he said.
    They spent the next couple of minutes passing the slices. Lance gave her the first taste of each. The rowdy teens, obviously influenced by their cream pie extravaganza, ordered four slices of pie as well.
    â€œOkay, I’ve got to admit, this is the best pie I’ve ever had.”
    â€œFavorite?”
    â€œCoconut. Followed closely by chocolate.”
    He smiled. “Me, too. But followed by lemon.”
    She took another bite of the coconut, then set aside her fork, vowing to breathe a while before taking another bite.
    â€œHow’s work?” she asked.
    â€œIt’s a joke.”
    â€œProfessional humor?”
    â€œI can’t help myself.” He took another forkful of the dessert. “It’s good. I’ve been busy. How about you?”
    â€œIt’s murder.”
    She said it deadpan, and he hooted. “Professional humor?”
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    â€œWhat’s it like being a cop?”
    â€œWhat’s it like being a comic?”
    He didn’t seem to mind her turning the question back to him. “Rewarding, painful, exhilarating, frustrating. When the audience is with you, it’s the highest high ever. When they’re not, nothing is more horrible. And it’s everything in between, including trying to earn enough money to keep on doing it—and