Half a mile from Gurney’s destination, at an unpopulated intersection, an old man was sitting on a low stool by the side of the road. Displayed on a shabby card table next to him were the mounted head of a deer and an old microwave oven. Propped against a leg of the table was a piece of brown cardboard with a scribbled offer: BOTH FOR $20.
Coming to the Lucky Larvaton Diner, Gurney discovered that it shared a weedy parking lot with a small strip mall whose businesses were all defunct—Wally’s Wood Stoves, Furry Friends Pet Emporium, The Great Angina Pizzeria, and Tori’s Tints & Cuts. The final vacant storefront in the row promised in a curled and faded window poster that Champion Cheese would be “coming soon.”
The diner was across the lot from these empty stores. Built in the railroad-car style of traditional diners, it appeared to be in need of a good power-washing. There were two cars parked beside it—a dusty old Honda Civic and a turquoise Chevy Impala from the sixties—and a nondescript pickup truck out in front. Gurney parked next to the truck.
Inside, it looked not so much old-fashioned as just plain old. It had none of that ersatz “country charm” that exists in the minds of people who live in cities. There was a gritty reality to the scuffed brown linoleum, the smell of grease, the poor lighting. On the back wall a MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN poster was curling in at its corners.
A thin, sharp-featured man with an oily black pompadour stood behind one end of the counter, peering down into the pages of a thick ledger. A middle-aged waitress with lifeless blond hair was perched on a stool at the opposite end of the counter examining her fingernails.
Halfway between them a stocky customer in faded farm overalls was hunched forward with his elbows on the worn Formica surface, eyes fixed on an old television that sat behind the counter on a microwave oven. The talking heads on the screen were proclaiming their opinions.
A row of booths ran along the diner’s window side. Gurney made his way to the booth farthest from the television. Despite his efforts to gather his thoughts for his meeting with Rick Loomis, snippets of the TV audio kept intruding:
“. . . zero respect for the police . . .”
“. . . throw away the key . . .”
“. . . worst elements getting all the sympathy . . .”
The blond waitress approached Gurney with a smile that was either sleepy or stoned. Possibly both. “Good afternoon, sir. How are you doing on this beautiful day?”
“Fine. How are
The vague smile broadened. “I’m doing wonderful. Do you know what you want, or should I give you some time to think about it?”
“Just coffee.”
“No problem. Do you have a Lucky Larvaton gas card?”
“No.”
“You can earn free gas. Would you like one?”
“Not now, thank you.”
“Not a problem. Milk or cream?”
“Cream, on the side.”
“Just for one?”
“I’m expecting someone.”
“You’re the gentleman meeting Detective Rick, is that right?”
“Rick Loomis?”
“Detective Rick is what we call him. A very nice man.”
“Yes. I’m meeting him. Did he call?”
“He said he was trying to reach you, but he couldn’t get through. There are so many dead cell areas around here. You never know when you’re going to get cut off. At the village meetings they keep promising to do something about it. Promises, promises. My granddaddy used to say if promises was poop nobody’d have to buy fertilizer.”
“Very wise. Do you recall the message Detective Rick left for me?”
“That he’d be late.” She turned to the counter. “Lou, how late did he say he’d be?”
The man scrutinizing the ledger answered without looking up. “Quarter of an hour.”
He checked the time on his phone. It was 3:25. So now there was a total of twenty minutes to wait.
“He comes in here a lot, does he?” asked Gurney.
“Not really.”
“But you know him?”
“Of course.”
“How?”
“Because of the Pumpkin Murders.”
“Damn!” Lou spoke without looking up from the ledger. “There you go again!”
“Sorry, say that again?” said Gurney.
“The Pumpkin Murders,” repeated the waitress.
“Pumpkin? Is that someone’s name?”
Lou looked up. “You can’t keep calling them ‘murders.’ The cops never proved a damn thing. Nobody got incarcerated. You keep saying ‘murders’ you’ll get us sued for defamation.”
“Nobody’s suing nobody, Lou.”
“Whatever you call it,” said Gurney, “what did it have to do with Rick Loomis?”
The waitress answered, “He was the one on the case. The Pumpkin Murders.”
“There wasn’t no murder,” insisted Lou, his voice rising.
The waitress’s voice took on an edge of its own. “So what did the two of them do, Lou? Just crawl under that pile of pumpkins and lie there till they died of natural causes?”
“I’m not saying the pumpkins didn’t get dumped on them. You know I’m not saying that. What I’m saying is, it could’ve been an accident. Farm accidents happen every day. Worse ones than that. Where’s your presumption of innocence?”
