And then I spotted silver hair. I stopped dead, stunned. The woman was clearly Glennis Archer, but she looked nothing like her photo. Instead of sleek hair, understated makeup, and an expensive suit, her hair had been spiked up with gel. She had more makeup on than one of those TV evangelist women, and she was wearing black leather pants and a sequined top, of all things. But what really caught my eye was the particularly bright shade of pink lipstick.
Gotcha!
I pulled out my phone to text Cheryl, but had no signal. What kind of bar had no cell service? I started back to the bar to grab her when I tripped over someone’s massive, booted foot.
“Hey, little lady,” a voice boomed in my ear. What was with that phrase tonight? “Sorry, about that.” A beefy hand wrapped around my upper arm and held on a little too long. I tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let go.
“Hey—” I started, then stopped. The man was massive. Probably six foot seven and solid muscle except for a slight paunch around the middle. He had a black bandana tied around his head and a big, bushy, red beard that probably hid a week’s worth of food. I forced down my gag reflex. I’d never been one for beards. “No problem,” I choked out, trying to subtly free myself from the beefy man. He didn’t let go. “Could I please have my arm back?”
“Well, now, I’m thinking not. I’m thinking you should join me and my buddies for a drink.” Beefy gestured to a table full of leering men wearing way too much leather and not nearly enough deodorant.
I threw back my shoulders, which had the unfortunate effect of drawing attention to my ample bosom. “I’m only going to say this once.” Anyone who knew me would know that tone of voice meant danger. “Get your hand off me.”
“Oh, come on,” Beefy said, propping himself on the edge of a table with one hand while still holding on to me with the other. “Be a sport.” He and his compatriots leered at me.
I sighed. “Fine. You asked for it.” I snagged a fork off the nearest table and stabbed it full force into Beefy’s hand. He let out a howl and dropped me like a hot potato.
“Why you little—” He swung. I ducked. His fist planted into the back of the head of a man who’d been standing behind me. The man’s beer sprayed all over half the dance floor. He swung around and, without so much as a word, punched Beefy in the face.
Next thing I knew, there was a full-on brawl. I could see Cheryl’s terrified face at the bar. I waved to her and pointed at the retreating back of Glennis Archer. I knew the minute Cheryl recognized her. Cheryl gave me a thumbs-up and slipped out of the bar after Mrs. Archer.
Meanwhile, things were getting precarious. Someone had picked up a chair and slammed it over someone else’s head. Unfortunately, the chair was metal, so there was quite a lot of blood. Some of it hit my shoe. Ew.
I tiptoed around the mess, trying to wend my way through the teaming crowd without getting any more involved than I already was. A fist flew my direction, and I dodged to the right, stepping on someone’s foot. The foot kicked out, but I darted to the left, narrowly avoiding it. It connected with someone else, and the brawl spread.
By the time I made it to the door, the music had finally stopped and the bartender was shouting into a cell phone. Probably to the police. How did he have cell reception in here? I slipped out the door and into the dimly lit parking lot and let out a massive sigh of relief.
Scanning the lot, I caught sight of Cheryl standing next to a snazzy little roadster, arguing with the occupant. I strode over, ready for battle.
“You can’t leave,” Cheryl was saying.
“I most certainly can, young woman. Now move out of my way or I’ll run you over.” The imperious tone could only belong to our quarry.
“Glennis Clay Archer, I presume?” I said, leaning up against the side of the car and poking my head through the passenger window.
She turned to stare at me. “Who on earth are you?”
I reached in, unlocked the door, and slid into the passenger seat. It was surprisingly comfy. “Viola Roberts.”
“What are you doing in my car? Get out or I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Call the cops? Have your face plastered all over the morning paper? I don’t think so.”
Her expression grew tight, face pale. “What do you want?”
“I’ve got a few questions for you. No biggie.”
Her jaw muscle flexed. “I can’t stay here. I need to leave before the authorities arrive.”
She was keeping her posh tone, but her outfit was total white trash. “That’s fine. I’ll ride along with you while Cheryl follows.”
Glennis opened her mouth to protest, but I gave her a look.
“This is highly irregular,” she muttered.
“So is murder.”
“Murder?” she screeched. “You’re going to murder me?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” I snapped. “I’m a writer, not a killer. I’m talking about The Louse.”
She blinked, confused. “Who?”
“August Nixon.”
“Oh, him.” She rolled her eyes. “I should have known. The Louse is an accurate name for him. There’s a diner down the road. Will that do?”
“Works for me.”
“YOU HAVE TO UNDERSTAND, I can’t have this getting out.” Glennis kept her voice low, head tilted away from the rest of the diner so that her hair hid half her face. “I have a certain reputation to uphold. My business depends on it.”
“Mrs. Archer—” I broke off as the waitress appeared to take our orders.
Makin’ Bacon was a cleverly named fifties-style diner on the east side of Highway 101, halfway between Winos
