A light snow was
falling as Charlie Reardon left the diner and made his way down Madison Street. The sun had not yet made an appearance and
probably wouldn’t, given the thick clouds which blanketed the darkened
sky. A brisk wind was blowing in off of
the ocean and Charlie pulled his overcoat tighter around his thin neck. He quickened his pace down the street, nearly
colliding with the blond who was running up the block in the opposite
direction. He paused for a moment as she
stopped and stared at him. Her face was
vaguely familiar to him. Charlie Reardon
continued on, leaving the young woman gaping in his wake.
“If bad food isn’t
a crime,” he muttered to himself. “Then
it ought to be!”
***
“Damn,” I cursed,
glancing at my watch. I was supposed to
meet Miranda at the new diner over on Madison
at six, am not pm, and I simply do not function at this ungodly hour. Late was my middle name, but this time I had
outdone myself. It was almost seven
though you would never know it with the late sunrise. I hated winter. It could be so bleak and depressing, even along
the shore. The early morning snowfall
wasn’t helping any either. It was just
making the sidewalk too slippery to run on.
Miranda and I were
riding along with the Culinary Car this morning. The Culinary Car was the brainchild of the
Spring Lake Gazette’s resident food critic, Chuck Meete. I kid you not. That is actually his name and with a name
like that wouldn’t you go into the food business too?
Chuck came up with
the idea as a winter filler, driving around in his purple SUV with a huge
cupcake strapped to the roof, to taste the food at area restaurants, bakeries
and specialty cuisine shops and then write about them. He encouraged reader suggestions in his
column and on his blog. It was an
instant hit. Now, people applied months
in advance to ride along as guest eaters.
The Spring Lake Gazette loved it.
With newspapers heading the way of the dinosaurs, management was
thrilled with anything that brought in the subscribers and the Culinary Car did
just that.
Subscriptions were
up, the Culinary Car was driving into its fifth successful year, and Chuck’s
first book was due to hit stores and the Internet in a couple of weeks, just in
time for the holidays. He’d even
upgraded from the blow up cupcake to an actual one which was designed and made
for him by a shop class from the area high school.
The snow was
picking up as I sprinted up the street to Dave’s Diner where I was meeting
Miranda. They’d just opened up a few
weeks ago. Their food was awful, but
their coffee was to die for and I was going to need coffee. Miranda was doing the munching and I was
doing the writing. It was a feature
piece on Chuck for the Sunday edition in anticipation of the release of his
book, TO MUNCH OR NOT TO MUNCH, THAT IS THE QUESTION.
When I turned the
corner, I could see Miranda’s profile in the foyer. The streets were pretty empty. Most likely the weather was keeping people at
home this morning. I know I wouldn’t be
out in this if I didn’t have to be.
Quickly, I opened the door, bumping into Miranda’s elbow. She stood there, rooted to the floor, still
wearing her black wool coat.
It felt lame to
apologize, but I did anyway. “Sorry, I’m
late,” I mumbled, reaching into my bag for some money. “Coffee is on me.” I took two steps in and stopped short. Miranda still hadn’t moved. “Let’s get our coffee and go. Chuck is probably waiting.”
“Rainer, look,”
Miranda whispered, pointing.
My gaze followed
her finger to the counter at the far end of the diner. Dave Peters, the guy I’d been buying my
coffee from every morning for the past two months, lay across the chrome
top. His clothes were soaked in blood
and there were red spatters everywhere.
A plate of food was dumped on top of him and a crimson stained knife sat
on nearby table.
“I saw the man who
did this,” she choked. “He was walking
down the street when I was coming here.
He was shrouded in evil.”
I wanted to ask
what an evil shroud looked like, but my stomach wretched and I vomited all over
the floor.
***
Twenty minutes
later, Miranda and I sat in the back room of Dave’s Diner waiting for the
police to question us some more.
Apparently, they were still troubled by the fact that Miranda did not
call them immediately when she discovered the grisly scene. The same thought had occurred to me, but I
know Miranda. She and I met when I first
joined the Spring Lake Gazette five years ago.
The friendship wasn’t immediate.
I fully admit to being jealous of Miranda’s natural-born blond beauty
and healthy cleavage. She made men stop
and stare while I always fell into the cute category with my pale Irish skin,
long, curly red hair, and petite figure.
Miranda was Helen of Troy and I was her best friend.
In addition to
being gorgeous, Miranda was the sweetest person on the planet, making it
impossible to dislike her and believe me I’ve tried. She was also a psychic. She penned the Gazette’s second most popular
column, The Psychic Corner. I did not
pretend to understand her ‘gift’ and was occasionally guilty for poking fun at
it, but Miranda had a huge heart and never lied.
“They think I did
it,” she sniffed into her tissue.
“Then, they’re
stupid. If you were responsible for that
mess in there, you would have been covered in blood. They know you didn’t do it. I think they are trying to understand why you
didn’t call an ambulance.”
“Dave was dead,
Rainer. His soul had left his body.”
“Okay, the police
then.”
“I’d only been
inside for a few minutes before you arrived.”
“I was almost
fifty minutes late.”
Miranda wiped at
her eyes. “I was late too. I was running up the street at six-thirty. My alarm didn’t go off. I was afraid you would be waiting for me.”
I squeezed her arm
and smiled. “Now, when has that ever
happened?”
“I saw it. I saw him kill Dave. I passed him on the street.”
“The man shrouded
in evil?”
She nodded. “He walked past me and I peered into the
window of his soul. I saw the whole
thing. He killed Dave.” Tears started to run down her face and her
voice broke into a sob. “Poor Dave, I
was so overwhelmed with grief and terror that I just stood there. I don’t know how long I stood there. Time stopped.
It started again when you walked into the diner. I don’t even know how I got here.” She buried her head into my sweater and
sobbed. I pulled her close and held her.
When she finally
stopped, I brushed the damp strands of hair away from her face. “Did the shrouded man see you?”
She straightened
up and rubbed at her eyes with another tissue.
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s not
good. Do you know who he is?”
Miranda
nodded. She looked pitiful. “It was Charlie Reardon.”
My eyes widened in
disbelief. “Charlie? The Charlie who drives the Culinary Car?”
“Yes,” she
whispered.
“Why would he kill
Dave?”
“Bad food is a
crime.”
“What?”
“It’s what he said
after he slit Dave’s throat and poured his breakfast on top of him. He said something about bad food being a
crime.”
“What do you mean
you saw it happen?” Miranda was so
sincere and I wanted desperately to believe her, but it was difficult. I didn’t begin to understand her ‘gift.’ She rarely spoke about it to me probably
because she knew I was a skeptic.
She sighed. “You don’t believe me and they won’t
either. It’s why I haven’t said
anything.”
“You have
to.” Miranda shook her head and buried
her face into the torn Kleenex. “Tell me
what you saw.”
“I was rushing up
the street and he was the only other person on the block. The closer I got to him, the darker the aura
around him became. He stopped when I got
close to him for a brief moment and that’s when I saw it, the entire scene in
the diner.” She dabbed at her nose with
another tissue and took a deep breath.
“I don’t remember anything else until you walked into the diner and
started talking to me.”
She was
right. The police weren’t buying this
one. I put my hand on her shoulder. “Has this ever happened before?”
Miranda avoided my
eyes. “It happens when I have
visions. Not very often, but it
happens.”
***
An hour later,
Miranda and I walked into the small offices of the Spring Lake Gazette. They were housed above the town’s Tudor style
library. Miranda was shaky and
humiliated. The police did not believe
her and had the nerve to tell her not to leave town in case they had more
questions. Apparently, they did seem to
feel she was a suspect.
It was
infuriating. Obviously, they were not
going to find evidence connecting Miranda to Dave’s death but they weren’t
looking for Reardon either. He was probably
half way to Mexico
by now.
“Rainer,” Miranda
gasped, clutching my arm. She stopped
short and there he was. I guess the
thought of fleeing never occurred to him.
We both stood
wide-eyed, staring at the sight of Charlie Reardon sipping coffee in our break
room.
“There you are
girls,” Chuck shouted from across the office.
“The Culinary Car awaits!” Now
considering, Chuck sampled large quantities of food for a living, you would
expect him to be rather rotund. However,
the reality was he was quite tall and thin.
His nickname in high school was beanpole and it still applied.
“Are you kidding,”
I said, unable to keep the awe from my voice.
“Do you know what happened this morning?”
He walked forward
and gave us both a hug. “It’s an awful
shame about Dave. Man couldn’t cook to
save his life, but made a mean cup of coffee.”
Miranda stood like
a statue, eyeing Charlie Reardon who kept drinking. This one was on me. “Has Charlie been here all morning?”
“Yes, he was
downstairs waiting in the Culinary Car.
When I found out what had happened with you two, I went downstairs to
bring him in out of the cold.”
“Did you notice
anything unusual about him today?”
Chuck looked at me
strangely. “No, why should I. Charlie’s a bit on the quiet side, but that’s
not a crime. His job is to drive not
chat. I told the places we were visiting
today that we would be late. The rest of
the crew is downstairs chilling in the library.”
Slowly, Charlie
rose from the table. He stood and turned
toward us. His eyes locked on Miranda’s
face. Miranda grabbed my hand tightly as
he began to walk towards us.
“Call the police,”
I whispered to Chuck, pulling Miranda towards me.
“Police, why would
I need to call the police?”
Charlie stopped a
few feet from us. His navy overcoat was
zippered all the way up to his throat.
Carefully, he unzipped it, his gaze unmoving. The coat slipped off his shoulders and fell
to the floor revealing his blood spattered clothing.
“If bad food isn’t
a crime, it ought to be.”
Chuck picked up
the phone from the nearest desk and dialed 911.
Charlie sat down
on the floor on top of his overcoat. “If
bad food isn’t a crime, it ought to be.”
That was a line
none of us would be forgetting anytime soon.
***
This was originally written for First Line Magazine. It didn't make the final cut. I like it. I hope you do too!
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