“Then I’ll just have to hope,” Sunny told him. She left the store feeling a bit poorer but with a little thrill in her belly—the way she used to feel when she started pulling on the end of a string that could lead to a big story. Maybe, with luck, she’d get a look at the mystery man who had been staking out Martin Rigsdale—not to mention his possible killer.
She got into her Wrangler and continued down the street instead of turning around for the bridge. A few minutes’ drive brought her to Martin’s office. In the daylight, the neighborhood wasn’t very mysterious. The houses were a little bigger than on Wild Goose Drive, with more space and landscaping between them. The house where Martin had set up his practice still had the look of a work in progress—fine at first glance, but it looked shabbier in the sunshine. Trumbull and the Portsmouth cops hadn’t festooned the area with crime scene tape. The only difference Sunny could see was that there was some sort of notice or seal stuck on the office door.
Sunny pulled out her cell phone, dialed the office, and input a code when she got the answering machine. She sighed in relief. No new messages.
She swung her SUV back the way she’d come, pulling into the parking lot of a diner she’d passed. Stepping inside, she asked the waitress if they did takeout orders.
The older woman looked distracted. Sunny turned around to find Martin Rigsdale’s face on the TV set installed up by the ceiling.
“Huh,” the waitress said. “Him.”
8
Sunny swung back to the waitress. The woman had about ten years on her, but she still had a good figure, a broad, pleasant face, and a sassy smile.
“Know him? No.” The waitress shrugged and quirked her lips. “But he sure as hell wanted to change that. Used to come in here and try out the old charm on—well, I won’t say on everybody. Let’s just say anybody who could wear a skirt and looked fairly decent. It got so I had to warn off a couple of the younger kids. I don’t know what it is about some guys. They get a thing about waitresses—something about a good-looking babe who brings you food.”
She made a face. “And then he made this place his headquarters. Guess he must have lived or worked someplace nearby. Even so, I don’t know why he chose us. Trust me, unless you’re hooked on grilled cheese, it ain’t the cuisine. And he was a pretty snappy dresser, not like the polyester crowd we usually get. You’d think he could afford better.”
“Then I guess I’ll have a grilled cheese and a cola to go,” Sunny said, and the waitress passed the order along. Sunny smiled, hoping she’d look just plain personally nosy, not professionally nosy. “So he used to keep coming in here even though he struck out with the staff?”
The waitress grinned and shrugged. “Started bringing his own women. Maybe he wanted to show us what we were missing. The little blonde—well, she wasn’t so little, just young—she might turn up with him for breakfast, lunch, or supper. And she was just eating up anything he had to say. I don’t think she paid much attention to what was on her plate. She could have eaten a dirt and dandelion omelet and wouldn’t have complained.”
“Yeah, that one was definitely a cheap date,” the waitress went on, laughing. “The older woman who had coffee with him, though—the brunette—she was definitely slumming. With those clothes and jewelry, she was a lot classier than this place.”
The waitress broke off as the counterman came over with Sunny’s order in a plastic clamshell and a wax cup. The waitress put them in a bag and took Sunny’s money. “Oh, well. Guess it takes all kinds. I wonder what the guy did to get killed. Maybe somebody’s husband did it.”
Sunny thanked the woman and headed for the door and out to her SUV, weighing the package in her hand.
