Don't Call Me Hero

Chapter Three

Since I hadn't had time to go grocery shopping, and without reliable wireless service, I had to trust local word-of-mouth to find someplace for breakfast the next morning. The reed-thin, grey-haired man shuffling down Main Street walking his equally skinny dog assured me that everyone went to Stan's 24-hour diner. It was one of those old-fashioned drive-in joints with only a few tables; most people sat around the dozen and a half stools that hugged a huge, curved countertop. A flattop grill dominated the center of the restaurant where a man, who I assumed was Stan, made your food while you watched.

I settled down on a vacant stool situated between two older men. The man to my right had his eyes closed, and if not for the way the coarse hairs of his mustache fluttered with each exhale, I would have worried he had died in the middle of breakfast. The man on my left peeled a hardboiled egg with impressive dexterity as if he'd done it every morning of his life.

I ordered French toast and coffee from a waitress who stared at me like she was trying to look under my skin. It was obvious that people in Embarrass knew each other. I was a stranger, and I could see the curiosity and distrust in people's stares.

"You're not from around here."

I twisted on my stool to regard Mr. Hard-Boiled Egg. His light brown eyes squinted in contemplation.

"No, sir. I'm not."

"I'm Franklyn Walker," he said, grabbing my hand and giving it a hearty shake.

"Cassidy Miller," I returned. I eased my hand out of his tight grip. "I just got hired on with the police department."

"Police, eh?" He widened his toothy grin. "I used to be the Circuit Court judge, but now I'm one of those retirees. Last vestibule of royalty in society, I've always said. How many other people get called 'Your Honor?'"

"That's a good point, sir."

Franklyn Walker was one of those people who told you his life story within the first few minutes of meeting him. "I'm too old to have secrets anymore," he explained to me. He was small in build and easily excitable.

His wife, Deborah, perched beside him, was quiet and quick to roll her eyes. She seemed to balance out his over-exuberance. They'd been married for fifty years, and Franklyn wore that fact like a badge of honor.

When I asked if they had any kids, he said they did, but he claimed he didn't know how many. "I mostly saw them in the rearview mirror on family road trips," he told me. "That was back in the day before everyone flew everywhere. We had a station wagon with two back bench seats. I never could keep track of them all. Things have changed, but not always for the better," he continued on. "Now you get frisked every time you wanna get on an airplane."

"Frank," his wife scolded. "Leave the poor girl alone. She came here for breakfast, not to have her ear talked off."

"I like meeting new people," Franklyn defended himself. "Everyone I know is either buried in the Catholic cemetery or they've moved to Florida."

The bell above the diner door rang with the entrance of a new customer. I glanced briefly in the direction of the sound, and the French toast nearly fell out of my mouth.

It was her. The woman from the Minneapolis club.

"Coffee to go, please."

God, that voice.

Franklyn had fallen silent with the woman's entrance. He'd greeted everyone who walked in with a boisterous good morning and a comment about the weather or how good he thought the high school football team would be that season. But he said nothing to the raven-haired woman as she waited for her coffee.

I tried to stare as unobtrusively as possible. She was even more flawless in the light of day. Her grey trench coat was cinched at her small waist and obscured my view of most of her body. I let my gaze travel down the nylon stems of her legs to her black stilettos that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

My attention swept back up her body to her face, and I nearly choked when I realized she'd caught me staring. My throat constricted. Did she recognize me? Or had she forgotten about the clumsy girl who'd dumped multiple drinks on her dress?

She tucked a sweep of jet black hair behind an ear to reveal a pearl earring. Her caramel-colored eyes narrowed just slightly as if she was trying to make sense of my face. It was a look that said I was familiar, but she didn't know how. The club had been dark, and I was sure I looked different to her in daylight. She, however, looked just as beautiful, if not more so.

"Coffee's up." Stan set a lidded cardboard cup on the countertop, breaking the woman's silent effort to figure out who I was. She placed a five-dollar bill on the counter and gave Stan a tight-lipped smile in thanks. She glanced once more in my direction before leaving. The bell over the diner entrance jangled with her exit.

I took one more sip from my coffee and pulled a ten-dollar bill out of my wallet. I tossed the money on the countertop and left my breakfast half-eaten and forgotten. I might not have been able to confront her in the diner, but that didn't mean I was going to let her walk away without a word. I didn't believe in coincidences.

After a quick goodbye to Franklyn and Deborah Walker, I left Stan's and paused on the concrete sidewalk out front. I looked left and then right. The city was starting to wake up; it was busier than when I'd shown up for breakfast, but I saw no sign of the dark-haired woman. I almost questioned if I'd imagined seeing her. Maybe my flashbacks had expanded beyond the desert war zone to include my most recent embarrassing moments.

My digital watch beeped with the new hour. I'd have to look for my mystery woman later; Chief Hart would be expecting me soon. I had her first name, but there was no way of knowing if the name she'd given me at the club was real. But it was a small town, and I was a good cop. I slipped on my aviators and smiled. 

+ + + 

Want to read more? Find my novels, including books 1-4 in the Don't Call Me Hero series on Amazon!