and police station, boasted the largest parking lot in town. Even so, the only vacant spot was in the back row, where I squeezed my truck between a white city-issue Ford and a county animal-control truck.
The red-and-brown walls, last redecorated when Eisenhower was in office, seemed to vibrate with the screechy voices of morning-anxious people craving their first cup of coffee. Open twenty-four hours, Liddie’s was popular with everyone from the lowliest freshman at Cal Poly University to the mayor himself, who ate breakfast there every Thursday with whichever city council member he could dupe into picking up the check.
I craned my head above the chattering groups of threes and fours. This was maybe not one of my best ideas. A skinny Asian man in a Chevron Oil cap rose from his stool at the red Formica counter and dropped some coins next to his plate. I pushed through the crowd and headed for it. Counter seats at this time of day always went to the swift of foot.
“Benni Harper, how are you, honey?” a bass voice boomed as I walked by.
“Hey, J.D.” I stopped in front of the long, six-person booth he occupied. “I can’t believe you’re eating alone.”
“Well, I’m not anymore,” he said. His voice carried a strong Texas twang and sounded as unstoppable as a cattle stampede. “Sit down here, honey, and tell me what happened last night. That son of mine never could get all his facts straight.”
Jersey Dwayne Freedman, Carl’s father and publisher of the San Celina Tribune as well as owner of half the businesses in town, had known my family for over thirty years. He moved to San Celina from Texas the same year my parents came from Arkansas, when I was only three years old. With his thick white pompadour, impeccably tailored Western suit and turquoise-chunk string tie, he could be the poster boy of any Cattlemen’s Association in the country, though the only cattle he’d ever branded was on his gas barbeque on Sunday afternoons. He hadn’t called me “little lady” yet, but when he did, I wouldn’t fall over in surprise.
“You must be feeling better.” I slid into the red vinyl bench seat across from him.
“Felt worse last night than a calf with the slobbers.” He gave a bullish snort. “But I imagine I’ll live. Got to. Can’t let that liberal marijuana-lovin‘ son-of-a-gun win.”
J.D., as well as four other people, had recently run for a vacant city council seat. The council was currently split between the liberals (artists, academics and environmentalists) and conservatives (ranchers and oil people). With off-shore drilling, animal rights, the constant battle between ranchers and wine growers and the Hemp for Life people fighting for legalization of marijuana, whoever won the election could make a big difference in San Celina politics in the next two years. The runoff was between J.D. and a professor of political theory at the university.
“What’ll it be today, Benni?” Nadine, head waitress at Liddie’s since before I ordered from the children’s menu, appeared at our table. Without asking, she flipped my cup over and poured coffee. She set the pot down and grabbed a long yellow pencil from her pinkish-gray curls. “Tell me what happened last night. Were you scared? This is so exciting. Just like Murder She Wrote.”
“Buttermilk pancakes and a chicken-fried steak,” I answered, inwardly cringing at her tone. But then the whole thing was like a TV show to her. A piece of gossip. An article in the newspaper. She probably didn’t even know Marla. “I’m fine, but I’m not sure how much I’m suppose to say. Because of the investigation and all.”
“Sure, I understand,” she said, sniffing. “Saving all the best parts so J.D. there can sell more papers. Don’t mind me, I’ve just known you since before you could walk, that’s all.”
“Now leave the girl alone, Nadine,” J.D. said.
Nadine gave him a cranky look and wrote my order on her pad.
“Don’t be
The red-and-brown walls, last redecorated when Eisenhower was in office, seemed to vibrate with the screechy voices of morning-anxious people craving their first cup of coffee. Open twenty-four hours, Liddie’s was popular with everyone from the lowliest freshman at Cal Poly University to the mayor himself, who ate breakfast there every Thursday with whichever city council member he could dupe into picking up the check.
I craned my head above the chattering groups of threes and fours. This was maybe not one of my best ideas. A skinny Asian man in a Chevron Oil cap rose from his stool at the red Formica counter and dropped some coins next to his plate. I pushed through the crowd and headed for it. Counter seats at this time of day always went to the swift of foot.
“Benni Harper, how are you, honey?” a bass voice boomed as I walked by.
“Hey, J.D.” I stopped in front of the long, six-person booth he occupied. “I can’t believe you’re eating alone.”
“Well, I’m not anymore,” he said. His voice carried a strong Texas twang and sounded as unstoppable as a cattle stampede. “Sit down here, honey, and tell me what happened last night. That son of mine never could get all his facts straight.”
Jersey Dwayne Freedman, Carl’s father and publisher of the San Celina Tribune as well as owner of half the businesses in town, had known my family for over thirty years. He moved to San Celina from Texas the same year my parents came from Arkansas, when I was only three years old. With his thick white pompadour, impeccably tailored Western suit and turquoise-chunk string tie, he could be the poster boy of any Cattlemen’s Association in the country, though the only cattle he’d ever branded was on his gas barbeque on Sunday afternoons. He hadn’t called me “little lady” yet, but when he did, I wouldn’t fall over in surprise.
“You must be feeling better.” I slid into the red vinyl bench seat across from him.
“Felt worse last night than a calf with the slobbers.” He gave a bullish snort. “But I imagine I’ll live. Got to. Can’t let that liberal marijuana-lovin‘ son-of-a-gun win.”
J.D., as well as four other people, had recently run for a vacant city council seat. The council was currently split between the liberals (artists, academics and environmentalists) and conservatives (ranchers and oil people). With off-shore drilling, animal rights, the constant battle between ranchers and wine growers and the Hemp for Life people fighting for legalization of marijuana, whoever won the election could make a big difference in San Celina politics in the next two years. The runoff was between J.D. and a professor of political theory at the university.
“What’ll it be today, Benni?” Nadine, head waitress at Liddie’s since before I ordered from the children’s menu, appeared at our table. Without asking, she flipped my cup over and poured coffee. She set the pot down and grabbed a long yellow pencil from her pinkish-gray curls. “Tell me what happened last night. Were you scared? This is so exciting. Just like Murder She Wrote.”
“Buttermilk pancakes and a chicken-fried steak,” I answered, inwardly cringing at her tone. But then the whole thing was like a TV show to her. A piece of gossip. An article in the newspaper. She probably didn’t even know Marla. “I’m fine, but I’m not sure how much I’m suppose to say. Because of the investigation and all.”
“Sure, I understand,” she said, sniffing. “Saving all the best parts so J.D. there can sell more papers. Don’t mind me, I’ve just known you since before you could walk, that’s all.”
“Now leave the girl alone, Nadine,” J.D. said.
Nadine gave him a cranky look and wrote my order on her pad.
“Don’t be
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