Lainey Quilholt Mysteries Collection

Chapter 2-1

The Riverside Bar & Grill was the place where nearly everyone—at least the blue-collar people—went to lunch. It was a good meal at a good price. There was a bar, but there was also a separate dining room for the family.

Riverside Bar & GrillFor the most part, a lot of regulars came here, as well as sight seers, and people who came through on their way to another destination. Those who were more affluent stopped in at the Blue Hampton Inn & Suites. There was also The Pelican, which served lunch and dinner, just up the hill, looking down on the river. The riverboat, The Miss Twila, sat idle as I walked up the street. I didn"t see Uncle Ed anywhere. Actually, he was my great uncle, but I called him “uncle”, especially since he"d told me to never call him “great uncle”. Uncle Ed did his Mark Twain impersonation on The Miss Twila, which sat docked nearby. It was a grand riverboat, all white with turquoise trim. I was told it was 126 feet long and 30 feet wide with twin diesel Cummins engines. Not sure if that"s impressive, but the men seem to think so.

Blue Hampton Inn & SuitesThe PelicanThe Miss TwilaneverThe Miss Twila,I was about to duck into The Riverside when I paused and had just the slightest little twinge of excitement in my belly. The Coffee Huddle was at the end of town, about five blocks away, in one of the oldest sections. It sat next to the building which housed the Old Mill Bank (not one owned by the Beaumonts). Except for a needle and yarn shop, there were hardly any other stores in that section of town.

The RiversideThe Coffee HuddleToday, my palate was into a decedent pub burger, and they made the best here at The Riverside. I usually sat in a booth, but they were all taken, so I took a table on the far side, next to a window so I could look out. From my spot I could both look into the dining room with a good portion of the bar visible past the doorway, and out at the street. Up the hill was the Montclair Library on one side, and on the other stood a three-story white-washed building made of those large cement bricks. A cobbled lane from back in the halcyon days (used now only when someone"s rambunctious child wants to explore and climb), rose at a steep incline between the two buildings. Montclair Boutiques took up the first two floors, the third floor held apartments. Two windows stood open without benefit of a screen, and light blue curtains fluttered in the breeze out the window. The street below was narrow, only two lanes, with parallel parking on both sides. Traffic was anywhere from sporadic to constant along the River Road, also known as Front Street.

The RiversideMontclair BoutiquesNoise pulled my gaze to outside the window where I sat. A man pulled up on a Harley. Two more noisy Harleys pulled up and joined him. I recognized one of the men. It was the man in black from this morning. Finally I saw his face. I decided he was somewhat handsome, I made him out to be at least thirty, if not a little older. Rugged, tall and lean—if I were to write it into a book.

He was the tallest one of the three, and wore only black, but at the moment, the hat was missing. The other two had beards. He didn"t look quite as rough as the other two, almost like he didn"t really fit in. I wondered, now that I could see his face plainly, if this man was wanted, or something and hoped that Sheriff Weeks wouldn"t forget to look for the man in his mug book, or whatever he looked in. Probably in his computer. Boy, I had a lot to learn about police business.

Probably in his computerThe three men walked in, threw their legs over the bar stools and leaned on the bar. They were in the midst of a rowdy conversation, laughing at something one had said. At last something worthwhile to jot down at some point in my day. I found myself wishing I"d brought my notebook in order to make notes. My powers of observation had been heightened after taking my first creative writing class in my senior year. Our first assignment was to go to some public place—a park, restaurant, or library—and watch people and choose one subject and write down everything you notice about them, and what they were doing. This was tricky, because you didn"t want to look like you were stalking them. And naturally, if you kept staring at that person, they tended to look back at you. Then, out of embarrassment, you had to quit your observations, or maybe strike up a conversation. But I was shy, and so I never did that. I simply moved on to someone who wasn"t aware of me. This writing exercise was key in learning how to write how people moved, or walked, and what they did, how they talked, and so forth.

Of course, I didn"t want these rough, Harley-riding men to know I watched them. Fortunately, they all sat at the bar, backs to me, and a whole room away. I could watch them all I wanted, unless one of them turned around. They all ordered beers.

The heavy-set waitress sauntered up to my table, blocking my view of the bar. Her name was Bea, she had red hair—probably died, since she had to be pushing forty—piled up on top of her head with lots of hairspray and pins to hold it. I gave her my order. “Alright, sweetie, that"ll be comin" right up,” she said in a little drawl. Bea turned and chugged back toward the door to the kitchen. Over the music from the juke box she yelled out my order for a pub burger and fries. The smell of grease was heavy on the air vents today, and it made me hungrier the longer I sat. Thankfully, Bea brought me my drink and I sipped on that until my burger and fries came. I could get a refill anytime I wanted.

Meanwhile, I watched the three men, wondering why they were here, in our small town. At least I"d never seen any of them before this. I pulled out a paper napkin from the holder and began to jot things down—couldn"t help it—as I observed. All three wore those chains that attached to their wallets—as if someone would be stupid enough to try and pick their pocket. One had so many tattoos up and down his arms, he looked like he was bruised badly in some sort of motorcycle accident. I noticed the tall one raised his beer with his left hand. He drank it down and ordered another. Wow, thirsty guy. He probably shouldn"t be allowed to drive after however many beers he would have. Especially on a motorcycle.

After making copious notes on three sheets of napkins (I couldn"t help myself, and had to jot a few things down on whatever was available), I leaned my chin in my hand, elbow on the table, and looked outside. I day dreamed of seeing Brett again. I hoped I wasn"t going to be disappointed when I saw him after two years. I was certain by now he was engaged to Rebbecca Dawson. A guy as good looking as Brett couldn"t stay single long. Unless the both of them wanted to get college out of the way first.

I let go a sigh. Who was I kidding? The guys I wanted to date were either already dating someone or, not interested in me. (And AJ doesn"t count, because I wasn"t into him.) Maybe I was too plain-Jane? Was it my glasses? But Geek was in, wasn"t it? No matter, I would wear my contacts tonight.

Laughter from the bar turned my attention back to the three men. My gaze drifted to the obese waitress who stood three booths down, filling coffee cups for an older couple. She leaned over to them and said something, and all three of them looked back to the men at the bar. A little bar room gossip perhaps? I wondered. She leaned toward the couple again, spoke to them low enough no one else could hear her over the music. The couple nodded in unison, their expressions grim. They were talking about the bikers, I knew by their glances.

I pondered what they might have been talking about, and then my lunch came on Bea"s arm along with a few other lunches. I lifted the gross pickle slice off my burger, poured catchup all over it (no mustard), and put it back together. I ate ravenously, knowing I would have to get back to the bookstore so my aunt could take her lunch. Sometimes she ate a sandwich while she was there in the shop, but today, she had plans to go out with Sheriff Weeks, which I encouraged wholeheartedly. While I ate, I looked out the window, admiring the expensive clothes in the boutique across the street. A moment later, Arline Rochelle stepped out of the boutique. Hollywood thin, she could wear anything. Two bags swung from her arms. She looked happy as the proverbial cat that ate the canary. It wasn"t the first time I wondered where she got her money. As far as I knew she wasn"t working anywhere. And her family wasn"t well-to-do. I followed Arline with my eyes until she sashayed out of view. Two minutes later, she drove past in a red convertible. Again, I had to wonder if she wasn"t doing something illegal. There had been a rumor her grandmother had died and left her some money. Maybe that"s where the money had come from, and she was having a good old time spending it.

I finished my lunch, paid my bill at the table, leaving a tip, and made my way quickly to the front door. At the same time, the three men got up. The two bearded dudes were ahead of the tall one in black. I slowed my pace, letting the men file out ahead of me. Not the best idea to be behind them, because, for one thing, their hygiene was much to be desired. Except for Mr. Black, there was definitely aftershave and warm deodorant wafting from him. My eyes focused on his long hair. Golden highlights throughout his brown locks, and I found myself oddly attracted to him. Was it a rule, or something that innocent women liked dangerous guys? I wasn"t sure. I had to question my attraction to this older man. I decided it was more my writer"s curiosity than anything else.

I was four steps to freedom when Mr. Black seemed to sense my presence behind him, turned and stopped. Smiling, he held the door, and gestured for me to go ahead. Blue eyes glittered down at me as I ducked through the door. I made a sharp left and scooted up the sidewalk. I tried not to walk obviously fast, but I was breathless when I got to the end of the block, and waited for traffic to clear before I jogged across the street. Not once did I look back, but I did hear the Harleys start up.

Darting inside the bookstore, Sheriff Weeks" voice filled my ears. “That guy has a rap sheet as long as my arm—maybe longer!”

I stopped inside the door, and both darted looks at me.

“Who"s got a rap sheet?” I said.

Weeks turned to me, thumb arched over one shoulder, he said, “That guy this morning? His name is Hal Lassiter. He was doing time for a robbery, and ADW—assault with a deadly weapon—and served fifteen, now he"s out.” Weeks shook his head and hissed like a flat tire. “No wonder I didn"t recognize him. I wasn"t sheriff when this happened, I was working down in Saint Louis. But it was in the papers down there.”