“I hope your Budweiser holds out.”
“Storm party!” shouted Orlo and his buddies guffawed. They were giving good beer a bad name. But they were paying attention to Smith.
The Rottweiler with the red bandanna for a collar lapped beer from a plate at Orlo’s feet.
Silas ran his hand down his scarred neck. “We’re stuck for at least a day.”
“How’s—what’s the pregnant girl’s name?” I asked.
“Kowalski,” he said.
“Sandra Dee Kowalski,” said Ms. Maple coming through the doors with a couple of rolls and a grapefruit on a plate. “She’s still in labor. It will be a long day.”
Another three-name person. “What is this, a convention?” I said and nobody paid any attention because a series of thunderclaps shook the entire building like successive incoming mortar rounds. I wondered about Sandy’s mom.
Angie Maple wore a half-sleeve pullover shirt Tapes was staring at. One of his things is adorning shirts with weird and wonderful sayings, like “Pit bulls need love, too,” or “Get insight, eat a cornea.”
“Hi, Granny,” I said without thinking.
She didn’t respond, but she made sure we could all see her shirt. An elderly lady graced the front. She carried a big Uzi, and wore crossed bandoliers adorned with grenades and ammo.
Above her was the word “GRAMBO” and below her the caption read: “TAKE AWAY WHOSE SOCIAL SECURITY?”
Granny Maple was a Gray Panther if nothing else. She sat at the table next to us and buttered a roll and tinkled iced tea.
Silas Smith was looking awkward. “Thanks for, ah, carrying the governor back there and—”
The dog growled at him.
“No sweat,” I said. “What’s Mary Lynn’s last name?”
“Messenger,” he said.
“None of your beeswax,” said Angie Maple.
Smith looked funny and backed out the door, warily eying the beast. “Your accommodations are free and so is the food if you remain. By doing so, you release the Inn from any liability.”
I drank some Bud and leaned toward Ms. Maple. “Why isn’t it any of my business? I’m not intruding.”
“She already had one bad experience with a man and doesn’t need to get started on another.”
“Granny, I’m beginning to resent—”
“I saw the way you were looking at her last night. You’re trying to catch her on the rebound, just for your own nefarious purposes.”
“Yeah, and I might be a murderer, also,” I said. Hell, I was vulnerable, too. I’d just broken up with Rebecca and wasn’t too happy with the opposite sex. But, I stopped short in my reverie, Granny might be right. A kind and bold look last night from a pretty woman, sort of a soft touch which wormed into my heart a little. I shook my head. Tapes was correct, next thing I’ll be writing poetry and I like poetry only a little more than death marches and cholera.
“You remind me of somebody…,” she said and I ignored her.
Orlo and his buddies were drinking beer and paying close attention to us.
I stared wrath and hellfire at them and, lo and behold, they averted their gaze. I guess Rebecca’s defection had burned me more than I thought. The dog returned my glare. Beer dripped from his mouth.
“You might well be,” said Ms. Maple.
“Be what?” I asked.
“The murderer.”
“That’s the least of my worries.”
“I’ll find out and when I do—”
Things added up then. “Just one minute, Granny, you’ve been watching too much television—”
“Somebody’s got to uncover the culprit.”
“They send you a badge with your AARP kit?”
“Shortcut,” Tapes said warningly.
“Well, she got to me.”
“The old Shortcut wadn’t that touchy,” he said.
“Okay, okay. Granny, I apologize for my remark. It was insensitive.”
“It was,” she said, “especially coming from someone who puts peanut butter on his baked potato.”
I put the knife down. “It’s good for you—”
A noise at the doors interrupted. Trooper entered. He was wearing his full uniform, light brown with a darker trousers-stripe, and had shaved and appeared sober. He wore his revolver, a flashlight, and a pair of handcuffs tucked in his belt at the small of his back. He went straight to the bar and behind it; he drew himself a draft Bud like Orlo and the other two stooges had.
Trooper drank the entire beer without the glass leaving his mouth. He sighed and drew himself another draft and set it on the bar.
He looked around the room, surveying it as if for the first time. He ran a finger around his collar and stretched his neck uncomfortably.
I was watching him with interest and he began watching me watch him. He pulled a flipover notebook out of a rear pocket and came around the bar. He stopped next to me, towering bulkily there as if to intimidate me.
He found a mechanical pencil and licked the tip. “Give me your name please, last name first, first name last, then middle initial.”
“Why?”
He frowned and sighed. Surprisingly, his voice softened. “You’re a witness, mister.”
“He’s a suspect,” Orlo said from his table over his dog’s head, “ye’d better read him his rights.”
“I do my job as I see it,” Trooper replied.
“I don’t see any way around it,” Tapes said.
Nor did I. “Birthday, Billy. NMI.”
“Let me see your driver’s license please.”
Angry with him towering over me, I stood and moved aside. I still had no choice.
I pulled my wallet out and the dog lunged at me.
My wallet went flying and cards and plastic and cash fluttered about.
Since my Nikes were drying in the room, I was wearing my Tony Lamas. With pointy toes.
I’d been waiting for something to happen and had seen Orlo nudge the dog and whisper in its ear.
Executing
