all created the chorus that sang of a successful establishment.
A big older woman with blond hair in a sort of beehive concoction greeted him from behind the cash register. “Tables and booths are all full, handsome, but if you don’t mind being a counter fly there’s a stool open at the end.”
He’d noticed that the name of the place was Ruby’s Café and had a feeling the woman was none other than Ruby herself. “Thanks,” he said and smiled. “I guess being a counter fly is better than being a bar-fly.”
She grinned, her blue-shadowed eyes sparkling in amusement. “Ah, not only are you handsome as sin, but you have a sense of humor, too. If I were two decades younger I’d have you for lunch.”
He winked at her. “If I were two decades older…I’d let you.”
She was still laughing as he slid onto the empty stool at the end of the counter. He opened his menu, quickly made his selection, then leaned back in the stool and tuned into the bits and pieces of conversations that floated in the air around him.
A table of farmer types were complaining about the weather and predicting a long rough winter. Two women at another nearby table were discussing the trauma of potty training, and the two men closest to him at the counter were discussing the latest nosedive on Wall Street.
The atmosphere in Ruby’s was one of peaceful coexistence, a comfortableness among the patrons and a sense of community as people departed and arrived and waves and smiles were exchanged.
“Sorry you had to wait,” a young waitress said as she stopped before him, order pad at the ready.
“No problem. Just a burger and fries,” Nick said. “And a glass of milk.”
By the time his order had arrived, some of the lunch crowd had dispersed and only Nick and two other men remained at the counter.
Nick ate quickly then lingered over a cup of coffee and a piece of apple pie.
“How’s that pie?” The big-haired blonde moved from behind the cash register to stand on the opposite side of the counter in front of Nick.
“Best I’ve ever had,” he replied truthfully.
“Just passing through or sticking around?” she asked with open curiosity. “By the way, I’m Ruby, owner of this fine establishment.” She stuck out a meaty hand with long, scarlet fingernails.
“Nick Mead. Nice to meet you and I think I’m sticking around for a while.”
“Good. This town could use a little more eye candy when it comes to the male population.”
“Why, I do believe you’re flirting with me, Ms. Ruby.”
She laughed and nodded her head, blond curls bobbing on plump shoulders. “I come by it naturally.”
She leaned over the counter and winked at him conspiratorially. “My great-grandma owned and ran the first brothel in these here parts. I come from a long line of flirts and lovers.” She stepped back from the counter and patted her big belly. “Unfortunately, I like my food better than I like most men.”
He laughed, then sobered. “Maybe you can help me, Ruby. I plan on hanging around town for a while, but I need a place to stay. I pulled up the Cherokee Corners home page on the Internet and noticed there were several options. Maybe you can direct me someplace?” Although the agency always made arrangements for the men they sent out in the field, Nick usually opted to make his own. Besides, the locals always knew which places were good and which were not so great.
Ruby frowned. “No hotels in town and the only motel is out by the highway. I suppose the sheets are clean enough but I wouldn’t go swimming in that swamp water they call a pool. If you want to be treated well and like a little extra TLC, there’s the Redbud Bed-and-Breakfast across the square. If you decide to go there, tell Alyssa I sent you.”
“Alyssa?”
“Alyssa Whitefeather. She owns the place, including the ice-cream parlor that’s the bottom floor.”
“Thanks, Ruby.”
“No problem…and don’t be a stranger.” She moved back to the cash register to take care of a departing diner.
As Nick finished up his coffee and pie, he thought about what to do for accommodations. Cherokee Corners was a town that thrived on the tourist trade and the Web page had listed half a dozen places for overnight accommodations.
He had no idea how long he would be in Cherokee Corners. It could be a week or two, it could be a month or more. Certainly the amenities of a bed-and-breakfast sounded far more appealing than a motel room, especially if his stay would end up being a prolonged one.
Besides, he hadn’t been in a motel room for almost three years. As he walked from Ruby’s to his car, his mind flashed visions of the last time he’d been in a motel room.
It had been the somber and sympathetic faces of his co-workers that had told him it was bad. They’d tried to keep him out, to talk him into not going inside the room, but he’d needed to see.
He still remembered the painting that had hung on the wall directly above the bed. At first he’d thought it was some sort of weird abstraction of sorts. It took him a moment to realize it had once been a serene landscape before blood had splattered it and run in rivulets down the canvas.
He hadn’t wanted to look at the bed, but knew he had to…he had to see with his own eyes that Murphy had followed him from Chicago to Tulsa, that Murphy had extracted a price of revenge that was beyond comprehension.
She lay there, blond hair splayed like sunshine on what had been a burnt gold bedspread. That’s what he’d called her…his sunshine. Dorrie…his sunshine, his wife of five years.
The last time he’d seen her had been that morning as they’d shared breakfast. It had been over scrambled eggs and wheat toast that they’d decided it was time to try to start a family. With her blue eyes shining brightly, she’d told him she wanted his baby.
Now she lay sprawled on the bed, naked and with a garish grinlike wound where her throat had been slashed from ear to ear. On her chest, a postmortem wound in the shape of a capital M—Murphy’s signature.
He slid behind the steering wheel of his car and consciously shoved the painful images out of his mind. He couldn’t think about that now. He couldn’t let thoughts of Murphy screw up the case he was about to take on. He had a murderer to find right here in Cherokee Corners.
But, eventually he’d find Murphy. His fingers curled painfully tight around the steering wheel as cold, barely controlled rage filled him. Eventually the son of a bitch would pay in the worst kind of way for taking Dorrie’s life.
“If you take care of restocking the napkins, I’ll refresh the toppings,” Alyssa said to Mary, the young, blond-haired woman who helped her out through the summers at the ice-cream parlor that comprised the bottom floor of the Redbud Bed-and-Breakfast.
“Okay,” Mary agreed good-naturedly.
Alyssa smiled warmly at the woman. She’d been a blessing in the past couple of months. Mary had not only pitched in and worked more hours than usual, but had supported
