Dead Broke in Jarrett Creek: A Samuel Craddock Mystery (Samuel Craddock Mysteries) by Terry Shames Page B

then drop him. You watch.”

    I stop by Town Café for some enchiladas, hitting the place at lunchtime, so it’s crowded. I hesitate in the doorway, the same feeling coming over me that I had yesterday. I don’t have the same relationship with people that I did before. I hope it’s my imagination that the room gets quieter with my standing there.
    Town Café wouldn’t win any award for decor, being a big tin Quonset hut reinforced with knotty pine paneling and linoleum tile floor. The walls are hung with neon beer signs, old photos from Jarrett Creek’s past as a thriving railroad town, and photos of winning football teams. Christmas was several weeks ago, but they haven’t taken down the decorations, which consist of worn-out gold and silver garlands and a tiny artificial tree hung with miniature candy canes. Despite the haphazard decorating, the café is a popular place because the food is good.
    A couple of the old boys I frequently have lunch with wave me over and I sit down with them. One is Gabe LoPresto, who is either behaving in a scandalous way or making the most of life, depending on who you talk to. LoPresto’s construction company has pretty much tied up business in the county. He’s a little hard to take sometimes because he brags and struts himself around, but his company has a reputation for quality work. Today he’s wearing a suit with a string tie, snakeskin cowboy boots, a black suede hat, and a big self-satisfied grin. He has been more or less insufferable since he took up with Darla Rodriguez. It makes it hard to talk to him like he’s a reasonable person.
    “I hear you’re the Big Chief again,” LoPresto says.
    “At least for a while,” I say. “Until we can get the city finances under control.”
    “That’s not likely to happen anytime soon,” LoPresto says. “You’re in for the long haul.” He gestures toward my knee. “At least it looks like the knee is doing pretty well.”
    “It’s getting there.” I don’t know why it makes me skittish to discuss the knee, even though it’s healing fine. Remembering what it’s like having it so banged up reminds me of how vulnerable I can be.
    “I hope it’s not going to take so long for the city to get back into financial shape,” one of the men says to LoPresto. “My wife was already complaining that the library is only going to be open a couple of afternoons a week. And that’s only because Mrs. Cutter is willing to volunteer her time.”
    “I’m afraid your wife is going to have to get used to it,” LoPresto says.
    “You’ve got your hands full being chief again at your age,” Harley Lundsford says, looking me up and down. He’s a rough-and-ready kind of guy, face as weathered as a lizard from farming. “I wouldn’t want to take on the job right after somebody got shot.”
    “That does make it something of a challenge,” I say.
    “If Dellmore had carried a gun on him, he’d be walking around right now.” Lundsford is a fierce advocate of everybody carrying a loaded gun in plain sight. So far he hasn’t gotten enough people to agree with him that it’s been made into law, but he takes every chance he gets to poke people with his opinion.
    “Could be,” I say, not wanting to open that particular can of worms today.
    I give Lurleen my order and then field questions about Dellmore’s murder until the conversation veers to the surprising success of this year’s football team. The season is long over, but the season for discussing football is year-round. I’m finishing up my lunch when Alton Coldwater walks into the cafe.
    “There he is,” LoPresto says under his breath, “the head crook himself.” LoPresto’s company was slated to build some of the structures for the water park before the project went belly-up. No wonder he’s mad at our former mayor.
    With Coldwater standing in the doorway surveying the room, there’s no mistaking the hush that falls. Everybody knows he’s saddled Jarrett Creek with