The waitress shook her head at Gurney as though they both realized how silly Lou was being. “Here’s the real story. Evie Pringle and one of the harvesters out at the Pringle Squash Farm were having an affair.” She punctuated “affair” with a flash of knowing approval, as though it were something every woman aspired to.
“Black boy,” interjected Lou.
“Lou! You know darn well he was mostly white.”
“Black’s black. Like being pregnant.”
She shook her head and continued her story. “The way Detective Rick figured it, Evie and her boyfriend had gone into the underground entryway to the storm cellar in back of the barn. Earlier in the day Evie’s husband, Dick, had been out in the fields with his front loader gathering up all the leftover pumpkins, which folks don’t have much interest in after Halloween. He’d loaded all them unsalable pumpkins, three tons of them, in his big dump truck. Then, while Evie and her boyfriend were down in the storm cellar doing what they were doing, with the doors closed over them, Dick went and dumped three tons of pumpkins on top of those doors. And that’s the horrible way they met their maker, naked victims of Dick’s terrible revenge.”
Lou produced another snort. “Dick had a perfectly reasonable explanation.”
“A reasonable lie, you mean.”
He slammed the ledger shut. “It wasn’t no revenge and it wasn’t no lie. He was piling them pumpkins there temporary like, until he could move them to the main compost heap.”
She shook her head. “You don’t know nothing about revenge, Lou.”
That seemed to leave him at a loss.
Gurney took the opportunity to ask her a question that had been puzzling him. “Why was Loomis discussing this with you?”
“Because Lou here was in the same school class with Dick Pringle, and I was one year behind with Evie. I suspect he was wanting some character insights.”
“What was his conclusion?”
“He agreed with me,” said Lou in a loud voice. “There wasn’t no murder, because Dick wasn’t no idiot. He sold the farm with them bodies still locked in that old storm cellar. If he’d known they was there, he’d a known they’d be found. Stands to reason. Loomis saw that plain as the nose on your face. He figured if Dick had done it on purpose, he’d have done it a lot smarter.”
“Like hell he agreed with you,” cried the waitress. “All he concluded was that there wasn’t enough proof to cook Dick’s goose. I believe he knew in his heart that murder had been done.”
Gurney was getting restless. “How did Pringle explain the fact that his wife and the hired man weren’t around anymore? I assume someone must have noticed.”
The waitress answered. “He told everyone they’d run off together. He was getting sympathy for being abandoned. What a shit!”
Lou slapped his hand on the counter. “Your mind is bent! He said they ran off together because that’s what he thought they done. It’s what any man would think. You suspect your wife’s getting it on with the hired help, and then they disappear together, what the hell are you supposed to think? It stands to reason.”
“Lou, sometimes I think you wouldn’t know reason if it bit you in the ass.”
They stared at each other in quiet disdain. Phrases from the television’s talking heads intruded into the silence. The thickset man in farm clothes at the end of the counter remained transfixed by the drone of bad news.
“. . . murder rate soaring . . .”
“. . . criminals empowered . . .”
Gurney’s phone rang. The ID told him it was Kline. He headed out into the parking lot, squinting into the bright, broad expanse of the valley, his eyes having just adjusted to the murkiness of the diner.
“Gurney here.”
“Where’s
“On the Route Ten Bypass between Angina and White River. Why?”
“We have a situation. Another cop shooting. No details yet.”
“Where?”
“Bluestone. The high end of White River. Number Twelve Oak Street. Whatever you’re doing, drop it. Put that address in your GPS and go!”
“Will do. But once I get there . . .”
“Once you get there, you observe. No static, no turf wars. WRPD just got there. So you’re my eyes on the scene. I can’t leave the office right now. Keep me informed.”
“You know anything at all about this?”
“Sniper. That’s it. Nothing else.” As he began to repeat the address, the connection was broken.
It occurred to Gurney that he should call Loomis right away, let him know about the emergency, and reschedule their meeting. As he searched his list of recent incoming calls for Loomis’s number, he remembered that it had been blocked, an automatic habit of many cops.
“You never got your coffee.”
The voice behind him in the parking lot belonged to the waitress. He turned and saw that she was holding out a Styrofoam cup. “I put cream in it. Sorry about all that in there. Lou can be such a dunce.”
Gurney took the cup and reached into his pocket for his wallet.
“Forget it. On the house. Least we can do.” She smiled her vague smile.
“Thank you. May I ask for another small favor?”
Her smile showed a spark of interest.
