Murder at the Blue Plate Café (A Blue Plate Café Mystery) by Judy Alter Page A

it down. Marj had served him sweetened ice tea.
    “Better check for rat droppings before you eat,” I said cheerily.
    Sandwich halfway to his mouth, he stopped and looked at me. “What?’
    “You heard me. You reported rat droppings to the mayor.”
    Slowly he put the sandwich down. “I did no such thing. I told her I couldn’t find a single violation. This place is as clean, really clean.”
    Now it was my turn to be amazed, and I know I stood like an idiot with my mouth open. “Say that again?”
    “I told her The Blue Plate Café could pass any inspection by a professional from Dallas. It’s really clean. Everything checked out.”
    “Refrigerator and freezer temperatures?”
    By now, Marj was leaning over the shoulder-height partition that separated kitchen from serving area.
    “Just fine,” he said. “Now, can I eat my sandwich?”
    “Sure,” I said slowly. “What about flies?”
    He shrugged. “You got a few. Show me a restaurant in the summer that doesn’t, what with people banging in and out of that door.” He nodded his head toward the double screen doors onto the porch that doubled as a waiting room.
    I leaned on the counter and took a big leap, calling him by his first name. “Rick, Mayor Thompson stormed in this morning and said she was closing us right away, for cooling temperature violations, open containers of flour, rat droppings, and flies. She was waving some papers in her hand, but she wouldn’t leave them with me. “
    “Why aren’t you closed?” He had set the sandwich down again.
    “I called her bluff, told her she didn’t have that authority as mayor, and I was entitled to an appeal to the city council. Actually, if anybody was going to close us, you’re probably the one with the authority. I used to work for a lawyer and I could ask him, though this is pretty far out of his realm.”
    Rick had begun to eat again with the air of a man who was determined to finish his lunch. I wondered if I should offer him antacid after he ate.
    Between bites, he said, “She wouldn’t leave the papers, huh? That’s because you’re right—you called her bluff, and it was indeed a bluff. I wonder if I could arrest her for falsifying information, even verbally.”
    Suddenly I got the giggles at the idea of the chief of police arresting the mayor. I put a hand over my mouth to stifle the laughter, but tears were running down my cheeks.
    “It isn’t funny,” Rick said. “She falsified what I reported. That reflects on my name and my honor.”
    I didn’t know whether that got things out of proportion or not. I was worried about my café being closed, and he was worried about his honor. It tickled me, and I began to giggle again. Rick tried to look stern, but then I saw the corners of his mouth twitch.
    “You know, I’m just going to pretend like it never happened, and see what comes next. Let me get you a fresh piece of peach pie, on the house,” I said.
    “Sure I can’t be accused of taking a bribe?” He really did smile then.
    “Absolutely not.”
    I was still grinning when I came back and set the pie in front of Rick. By then, Steve Millican was sitting at the other end of the counter. When I approached to take his order, he asked, “What so funny?”
    “Too long a story to tell,” I said, as Rick scowled at him.
    Rick finished his pie, paid his bill, nodded at me, nodded curtly at Steve, who gave the barest nod in return. I sensed animosity between them and asked about it.
    Steve tried to brush it off. “We tangled over something the other day. It doesn’t matter. He’s the chief of police, not the monitor of morals.”
    Giggles, once started, are hard to stop, and I could feel another attack, because I could see Rick Samuels assuming the role of moral arbiter, what with his concern about his own honor and over my so-called party-girl reputation. I fled for the kitchen.
    Once I finally composed myself—cold water on the face—I asked Steve what I could get him. “Just