He started for his rental car and I followed instead of arguing that we should take my truck.
“Diner?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Does that mean old-fashioned diner food?”
“Yes, it does,” I said. “Their motto is ‘Food just like Mom used to make—Maybe better.’”
He laughed. “Okay. I have to try this place.”
“They have a big breakfast like nothing else you’ve ever had. You probably won’t be able to finish it.”
He paused, hand on the top of the driver’s door. “Is that a challenge?”
I thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, I guess it is,” I finally said with a smile.
Andrew grinned. “You’re on, then.”
Other than the morning I’d had breakfast with Burtis Chapman, the only other times I’d been to the diner was for Meatloaf Tuesday with Roma. Fern’s had been part of the landscape of Mayville Heights for a long time. About six years ago it had been restored to its 1950s glory, or as Roma had put it, “Just exactly like it never was.”
The building was long and low with a decent-size parking lot in back. It had windows on three sides, and the front glowed with neon after dark. Inside there was the requisite jukebox, a counter with gleaming chrome stools and cozy booths with red vinyl seats.
To my surprise, Burtis Chapman was perched on a stool at the counter, one massive hand wrapped around a coffee cup. The first time I’d ever taken notice of those huge hands it had occurred to me that he could probably squeeze my head between his thumb and index finger and make my brains come squirting out of my ears. I was very glad that he seemed to like me.
We walked over to the counter and Burtis smiled when he caught sight of me. He was a big block of a man and his smile didn’t make him look any less intimidating. I remembered that the crocodile had smiled at Captain Hook right before he’d swallowed the pirate’s hand.
“Kathleen, girl, it’s good to see you,” Burtis said. “What in heck are you doing here?”
“Good to see you, too, Burtis,” I said. “I came for breakfast. What about you? Isn’t it a little past your breakfast time?”
He gave me a sly grin. “Well, for breakfast number one, but not number two.”
I turned to Andrew, who had been watching us like he was discovering another culture in a National Geographic special. “Burtis, this is my friend Andrew Reid. He’s here from Boston. Andrew, this is Burtis Chapman.”
Andrew took the hand Burtis offered and did his best not to wince as they shook.
“So you’re the young man who was a big enough asshole to let Kathleen get away,” Burtis said. I should have known that if he’d heard the story—and who in town hadn’t by now—he’d say something.
Andrew’s face reddened but he held the older man’s gaze.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I am the asshole who let her go. And now I’m trying to win her back.”
“And how’s that workin’ for you?” Burtis asked.
“Not well,” Andrew said with a shake of his head. I saw him surreptitiously clench and unclench the hand Burtis had just shaken. Probably trying to figure out if there were any intact bones left in it.
Burtis laughed. “I gotta give you credit for trying,” he said. “But I can’t wish you good luck because we want to keep Kathleen here.”
Andrew nodded. “Well, then, may the best man win.”
“That’s what I’m counting on,” Burtis said. He winked at me.
I slipped onto the stool beside him and Andrew took the one on the other side of me.
The waitress came out of the kitchen and slid a plate of fried tomatoes and what looked to be sourdough toast in front of Burtis. She was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt with PEGGY SUE embroidered over the pocket, hot pink pedal pushers, and red open-toe wedgies.
She smiled at me. “Hi, hon, what can I get you?”
It probably would have surprised a lot of people to know that Peggy had read every issue of Scientific American the library had and all of Stephen Hawking’s books on quantum physics.
“The big breakfast for each of us,” I said, gesturing at Andrew. “And coffee, please, when you have a minute.”
“Sure thing,” she said.
“Peggy Sue?” Andrew said softly in my ear.
“It’s her real name.”
He caught sight of the jukebox at the far end of the diner. “Does that work?”
I nodded. “Do you have quarters?”
He patted his pockets and slid down off the stool. “I do. I’ll be right back.”
Burtis set his mug on the countertop and looked at me. “Did Brady take care of your friend yesterday?”
“Yes, he did,” I said. “I like him.”
The sly smile was back. “The boy gets his charm from me.”
Peggy put a huge mug of coffee in front of me and I reached for the sugar. “Burtis, I have a feeling that’s not all Brady gets from you.”
He laughed. “If Brady was here he’d tell me not to say anything that might incriminate myself, so I’ll just keep my mouth shut.”
I smiled back at him, added cream to my cup and took a long drink. Fern’s had excellent coffee.
“Burtis, did you loan your truck to Abigail Pierce the other night?” I asked.
The grin disappeared. “Now who exactly wants to know? You or Detective Marcus Gordon?”
I took another sip of coffee before I answered. “Me,” I said. I set the cup down and leaned one elbow on the counter. Andrew was still looking through selections on the jukebox, but I wanted to finish the conversation with Burtis before he came back. “You heard about Hugh Davis, the director from the theater festival Abigail is helping to organize?”
He nodded. “I know who you mean.”
“Abigail’s my friend. I don’t want anything from his death to splash back on her. If you’d rather I ask her, I will.”
Burtis shook his head. “No need. Yeah, I loaned her one of my trucks. She had some stuff she needed to move for the festival and I have more than one truck. She picked it up Friday afternoon and brought it back that same night. Didn’t look like she’d moved any dead bodies with it, by the way.”
“Good to know,” I said.
Andrew had finally made his song choice. The first few notes of the music came out of the speakers and I had the urge to pull my shirt up over my head. It was “My Girl” by the Temptations.
“Not exactly subtle, is he?” Burtis said, picking up his fork again.
Peggy returned with our food just as Andrew got back to the counter. She set an oversize oval plate in front of each of us. Andrew looked at his and blinked. I’d already picked up my fork.
There were scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, fried potatoes with onions, tomato and some fresh rosemary, and two thick slices of raisin toast. I knew from past experience that the eggs would be fluffy, the bacon crisp and the potatoes golden on the outside and fork soft on the inside.
Burtis made short work of the last of his fried tomatoes and drained his coffee. He climbed off his stool and put one hand on my shoulder. “You have a good day, Kathleen,” he said.
I smiled. “You too, Burtis,” I said.
He nodded at Andrew and walked over to the cash register.
“I no longer have any feeling in my right hand,” Andrew said once Burtis was out of earshot.
“Count yourself lucky then,” I said, reaching for my coffee. “I’m pretty sure he could break it if he wanted to.”
We ate in silence after that until Andrew groaned and leaned his forearms on the countertop. “Oh, man, that was good,” he said. “Do they make that bread here? And where the heck do they get tomatoes that don’t taste like Styrofoam?”
There was part of a sausage and half a piece of bread left on his plate. “Yes on the bread and I don’t know about the tomatoes.”
I leaned sideways, speared the sausage with my fork and ate it. Then I broke the bread in half and ate that, too.
Andrew rolled his eyes. “You win, and where the heck did you put all that?”