“You might try the diner. Last time I was there she burned my hash browns.”
I call the station as I head toward LaDonna’s Diner. My first shift dispatcher, Lois, answers on the second ring and puts me on hold before I can stop her. When she finally comes back on, I’m steamed.
“Sorry, Chief, but the phones have been nuts.” She sounds rattled.
Nothing burns up the phone lines like a murder, I think darkly. “Any messages?”
“Lots of folks calling about the murder.”
I remember I was supposed to type a statement this afternoon. I’m running out of time. I wish I could stop the clock. “Tell anyone who asks I’ll have a statement later today.”
“Norm Johnston has called three times. He sounds pissed.”
“Tell him I’ll touch base with him later. I’m pretty tied up right now.”
“Will do.”
I disconnect, knowing I won’t be able to put off Norm much longer.
The clock on my dash tells me it’s three P.M. when I park outside the diner. Though it’s well after the lunch rush, the place is packed. The heart of the Painters Mill grapevine.
The smells of old grease and burned toast assail me when I enter. Dishes clatter over the din of conversation. From a radio next to the cash register, George Strait laments about desperation. I feel the stares as I walk to the counter. A woman in a pink waitress uniform and big hair smiles as I approach. “Hiya, Chief. Can I get ya a cuppa joe?”
I’ve met her before, but only to say hello. “That’d be great.”
“Wanna menu or you gonna have the special?”
I’m starved, but I know if I eat here these people will descend on me like hyenas on a fresh kill. “Just coffee.”
I slide onto a stool and watch her pour, hoping the coffee is fresh. “Is Connie Spencer around?”
She slides the cup in front of me. “She’s on her break. Poor thing’s been a basket case all morning. Amanda’s murder really freaked her out. You guys know who did it yet?”
I shake my head. “Where is she?”
“Out back. Been smoking like a chimney all day.”
“Thanks.” Leaving the coffee, I head into the kitchen area. The cook looks at me through the steam coming off his grill. A boy with a bad case of acne eyes me from his place in front of the industrial-size dishwasher, then glances quickly away. I spy the door at the back and start toward it.
I find Connie Spencer sitting on a concrete step outside. She’s a thin woman with narrow shoulders and small, quick hands. Her eyes are the color of barn muck and rimmed with blue liner. Pink blush streaks nonexistent cheekbones. Her mouth is bare of lipstick, revealing a cold sore in the corner. Huddled in a faux fur coat, she sucks on a long brown cigarette.
The door slams behind me. Turning, she gives me the evil eye, her expression defiant. A tactic I’ve seen more than once, usually when some tough guy is trying to cover nerves. I wonder what she’s nervous about.
“I was wondering when you were going to show up.” She glances at her watch. “Took you a while.”
Already I don’t like her attitude. “What made you think I would want to talk to you?”
“Because I was with Amanda Saturday night and now she’s dead.”
“You don’t seem too broken up about it.”
She tongues the cold sore. “I guess I’m still in shock. Amanda was so . . .
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
“Saturday night. We went out. Had a few drinks.”
“Where?”
“The Brass Rail.”
“Anyplace else?”
“No.”
“Anything unusual happen while you were there?”
“Unusual like what?”
“A guy showing too much interest in her. Someone she didn’t know buying her a drink. Did she have an argument with anyone?”
“Not that I remember.” She gives me a hard laugh. “But I was pretty wasted.”
“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Amanda? Did she have any enemies?”
For the first time she gives me her full attention. Some of the attitude drops away and I get a glimpse of the young woman beneath all the trashy brawn. “That’s what I don’t get,” she says. “Everyone liked Amanda. She was like . . . a nice person, always up. Laughed a lot, you know?” A smile that’s much too worldly for a twenty-one- year-old twists her mouth. “I’m the one people usually don’t like.”
I consider telling her she might contemplate an attitude adjustment, but I’m not here to enlighten some smart-assed punk. I’m here to find out who killed Amanda Horner. “What about a boyfriend?”
She lifts a shoulder, lets it fall. “She went out with Donny Beck some, but they broke up a couple of months ago.”
My cop’s radar goes on alert. This is the second time Beck’s name has come up. “How bad was the breakup?”
“Amanda didn’t put up with any of that me-Tarzan-you-Jane shit. She laid down the law and he listened.”
“Tell me about Donny Beck.”
“Not much to tell. He’s a clerk at Quality Implement. Likes Copenhagen and Bud and blondes with big tits. His biggest goal in life is to manage the store. Amanda’s too smart to get tangled up with someone like that. She knows there’s more to life than cow shit and corn.”
I notice she’s speaking of Amanda in the present tense. “Any messy breakups in the past?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Can you think of anyone who might be holding a grudge for some reason?”
“Not that I know of.”
I’m chasing my tail and we both know it. A gust of wind snakes around the building, bringing with it a swirl of snow. “What time did you last see Amanda?”
Her overplucked brows knit. “Eleven-thirty. Maybe twelve.”
“Did you leave the bar together?”
Exhaling smoke, she shakes her head. “Separate cars. I don’t like having to rely on other people for transportation, you know? If I want to leave and they want to stay . . .” Shrugging, she lets the words hang. “Could be a pain in the ass.”
Her lack of emotion bothers me. Amanda was allegedly a good friend. Why isn’t this young woman more upset?
She rises and brushes at the back of her coat. “I gotta get back to work.”
“I’m not finished.”
“You going to pay me for this, or what?” She motions toward the door. “They’re sure as hell not if I don’t get back in there.”
“We can do this here and now or we can do it at the police station,” I say. “Your call.”
She frowns like a petulant teenager, then plops down hard. “This is a bunch of shit.”
“I need you to tell me everything that happened Saturday night. Don’t leave anything out.”
Sarcasm laces her voice as she recaps a night of drinking, dancing and flirting. “We ordered a pizza and pitcher of beer and talked.” She sucks hard on the cigarette and I notice her hand shaking. “After that we played some eight ball and talked to some people we know. A few guys hit on us. I wanted to get laid, but they were a bunch of fuckin’ losers.”
“What do you mean ‘losers’?” I picture a group of hard-drinking, drug-dealing types looking for trouble.
She looks at me as if I’m dense. “Farmers. A bunch of go-nowhere, I’m-going-to-live-in-bum-fuck-the-rest- of-my-life good ole boys. I could practically smell the pig shit on their boots.”
“Then what happened?”
“I left.”
