waitress for me?”
My fork froze halfway to my mouth, a piece of cinnamon roll perched precariously.
Ruthie let out a burst of laughter. “You should see your face, missy. Have you ever done the waitress bit?”
“One summer I worked at a fast-food restaurant. It was the longest five years of my life.”
Ruthie laughed again. “I don’t see you as the waitress type. Now, don’t take offense. Being a good waitress takes a special kind of person. You have to be willing to show people who you really are, and you’re not like that. You keep yourself to yourself. Nothing wrong with that. It’s just not going to get you good tips.”
I’d never thought about it that way, and she was right. I’d never been comfortable engaging complete strangers in conversations that revealed too much. Marina said I was too uptight, that my upbringing was going to kill every chance of fun I was ever offered, but I liked Ruthie’s interpretation better.
“So what’s up?” Ruthie asked.
Frosting crumbled off the roll as I cut it into bits. “It’s about Sam Helmstetter.”
“Oh, you’re playing the who-killed-Sam game, too?” She smiled, making the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepen. “You and Marina? Hey, after last year you two have experience in this kind of thing. Have the police asked for your advice?”
I peered at her over the rim of my tea mug, but she didn’t seem to be laughing at me. “No,” I said. “But Gus did say he’d pass anything along to the sheriff’s department.” I lifted up the end of my sentence so it sounded like a question. Meaning: Do you suspect anyone of anything? And if so, please tell me.
“Haven’t heard diddley that makes any sense.” Her face sagged. “People are saying, ‘It’s a darn shame about Sam,’ and ‘The police should be doing something.’ Typical talk.” She shrugged, but sadness showed in the set of her chin. “He never hurt a soul in his life. He was an Eagle Scout, did you know? And he went on so many mission trips to Central America that he ended up minoring in Spanish.” Bewilderment colored her voice. “Why would anyone want to kill a man like that?”
Ruthie had known Sam his entire life. Had watched him grow from infant to toddler to young man to husband to father. “He shouldn’t be dead.” I put down my fork and put my arms around her. “He really shouldn’t.”
“I wish I did know who killed him,” she said roughly. “I’d—”
We clung together, held close by mutual grief for Sam: husband; a father of two; not a person to light the world on fire, but after the age of thirty-five, it would be a rare individual who had the spare energy to light more than his own little corner. No, Sam hadn’t been one of those dynamic, perk-up-the-room kind of guys, but he’d been someone you could count on, and really, what mattered more?
“Sam’s killer won’t be free much longer,” Ruthie said. The quake in her voice belied the confident words. “The police are going to find out who did it.”
I hugged her tight. “They sure are.”
And if they didn’t, I would.
I left the Green Tractor later than anticipated, my departure delayed by Ruthie’s refusal to accept payment for the food. The only reason she took any money whatsoever was because she accepted my suggestion to set up a coffee can collection for a scholarship.
“I’ll decorate it with the Rynwood High School colors,” she said, brightening up a little. “Wouldn’t it be great if Blake ends up wearing blue and gold, too?”
Traffic on the street was picking up now that lunchtime approached. I stopped just short of the hardware and stood on my tiptoes so I could see over the colorful display of bathroom sinks.
“You could just walk in.”
I jumped, then spun around and looked up—way up—at Evan. “What are you doing out here? Don’t you have a store to run?”
He smiled down at me and I went all mushy. A year after we’d remet, it still happened every time the man smiled. Well, almost every time. I didn’t mush out when he laughed at my attempts to repair drywall.
“My excuse is a visit to Debra O’Conner,” he said. “What’s yours?”
Debra was the bank’s vice president in charge of business loans, and Evan, who’d retired at age forty from a very lucrative career as a corporate attorney, had more money than anyone I’d ever known. Which wasn’t saying a lot, because I’d spent my adult life in Rynwood and didn’t get out much. Still, I couldn’t imagine that Evan needed a loan for anything.
Part of me wanted to ask why he needed to talk to Debra; another, larger part of me didn’t want to know. My own financial problems were keeping me from getting a decent night’s sleep. If Evan had troubles, I’d never get any rest at all.
I smiled brightly. “Errands.”
“Hmm.” He studied me. “If I were still a practicing attorney, I’d say you look guilty.”
“It’s the light.” I glanced up at the clear November sky. “This time of year it always makes me look as if I’m up to something. Getting close to Christmas and all that, so don’t ask too many questions.”
“Hmm,” he said again. “I’ll let you go, then.”
“Okay.” I backed away. “See you later, okay? I mean, I’ll see you. Um, later.”
I made my escape.
Down the street and over one block, my favorite hairstylist snicked her scissors shut and dropped them into a jar of green liquid. “There you go, Mrs. Beuhrle,” Denise said. “Better than new.”
Mrs. Beuhrle, who, no matter what she wore, reminded me of my great-aunt Edith’s sofa, patted her hair and smiled into the mirror. “You do
Denise looked at the check left behind and made a sour face. “I’m not retiring any day soon on the tips that woman leaves behind.”
I laughed. “All part of her plan.”
“Huh.” Denise dropped the check into the cash register. “She’s just cheap. Do you know the difference between Mrs. Beuhrle and a canoe?”
“No, I don’t.” I knew the difference between a Dutchman and a canoe, but maybe this was another joke.
“A canoe can tip.” Denise slammed the cash drawer shut.
Nope. Same joke.
“Did you want to make an appointment?” Denise flipped through her book. “I don’t have any early slots until next week, but there’s an opening Saturday afternoon. Want an updo for the dance? Bring Jenna in and I’ll give her a French twist with ringlets. She’ll look like a princess.”
I tried to imagine my tomboy sitting in a hair salon chair for an hour straight. Couldn’t manage it and tried again, this time with feeling. Still couldn’t.
“Not this time,” I said. “Put me down for the Tuesday after Thanksgiving.”
“Pencil or ink?”
Oh, the commitment. “Ink.”
“Okeydokey.” She turned the pages. “Did you hear the hot money is on the Stulls for the next divorce in town? Five bucks will get you into the pool. You get a one-week window.”
“Um, no, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” She scribbled my name and looked up. “Say, are you and Marina poking around again?”
Flossie was right—one incident could indeed make a reputation. “What makes you say that?”
“Nothing. I just wondered if you were.” She busied herself with straightening a stack of business cards that had never been straightened in their lives.
The hair at the back of my neck stood on end. Either Denise had something to tell me or I should have worn a heavier coat. “A little bit,” I said. “Gus said he’ll pass any information on to the sheriff’s department.”
“He will?” Her face cleared. “So I can tell you and he’ll tell them? Sweet.” She beckoned me close.
I leaned over the counter, close enough to smell the hair spray on Denise’s stiffened bangs.
