Once I hit the outskirts of the Eagle Ridge Township, I parked in front of the Blackbird Diner. If Dawson just happened to see my vehicle, maybe he’d amble in from the sheriff’s office. Be nice to see his face across the table from mine for a change.
The homey aroma of warm bread and strong coffee enveloped me as I headed toward my favorite booth in the back. I hung my wool coat on the peg and slid in, reaching for the menu strategically placed along the wall.
A glass of water plopped down in front of me. I looked up at Mitzi and smiled. “Thanks.”
But Mitzi wasn’t returning my smile. “You ain’t supposed to be carryin’ in here, Mercy.”
Having a gun on my person was second nature. I opened my mouth to argue, but Mitzi beat me to the punch.
“Only people I let carry in here are Dawson and his deputies. You know that.”
We’d had this argument before. I usually acquiesced and trotted out to my truck, dutifully locking my gun away. I wasn’t feeling so cooperative today. “I’m a federal officer on a case. Dawson enforces county regulations. Go ahead and call him. Tell him I’m in your booth with a loaded weapon. Let’s see what he does.”
Mitzi harrumphed. “Beings you’re livin’ with him, I doubt he’s gonna make you take it off. I really doubt he’s gonna write you a ticket. Or put you in jail again.” The ruby slash of her mouth was a clownishly grotesque smirk. “Then he’d probably have to wash his own socks and boxers, huh?”
I don’t know which annoyed me more-that Mitzi assumed because I’m a woman I did all the laundry in our household, or that she’d somehow known that Dawson wore boxers. I managed to hold my tongue. “What are the specials tonight?”
“Mushroom meat loaf with country gravy, mashed potatoes, and steamed veggies.”
Steamed veggies as a side dish nixed that choice. “What’s the soup?”
“Borscht or chicken noodle.”
Beets. Yuck. “I’ll have a bowl of chicken noodle, a side of hash browns with country gravy, and a basket of wheat rolls.”
“I’ll have to charge you for the bread,” she warned.
“I know. Water’s fine to drink.”
As she spun away from the table, her support hose eked out a scritch-scratch sound with every step.
I propped my feet up on the opposite bench seat and let my head fall back. Keeping my eyes closed, I focused on uji breathing to center myself.
But no matter how hard I tried to clear my mind, the image of Arlette Shooting Star’s body impaled by a wooden stake kept popping up. In a moment of clarity, I realized what had bugged me: the positioning of the body. Like a ritual killing. Like I’d seen in the forensics classes I’d taken at Quantico.