Dead Head: A Dirty Business Mystery by Rosemary Harris Read Free Book Online

emerged, holding his phone at arm’s length and shuffling towards a dirty white pickup that had streaks of rust on the side I could see and probably more on the side I couldn’t. He was trying to look casual but failing miserably. Neither of us was fooling anybody. I pantomimed searching for something on the passenger seat, in case he was looking in my direction, wondering why I hadn’t driven away. Then I turned off the engine and went back inside the diner, ostensibly to retrieve whatever it was I’d forgotten. I could feel his eyes on my back as the screen door slammed behind me.
    Babe was surprised to see me back so soon. “It was the Nigella reference, right?” she said. “You’re having second thoughts? Dang, Pete could turn out to be a domestic god. I may send him to culinary school. It could be a very good business investment.” I shushed her and dragged her to the farthest booth in the back of the diner.
    “Is he still there?” I asked.
    “Who?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.
    “Countertop Man, who wouldn’t know black honed granite from Black Oak Arkansas. Is he still out there in the white pickup?”
    She looked again. “If I had my periscope, I’d be able to answer more intelligently, but from where I’m sitting, no Countertop Man.” She gave me a look that bordered on maternal. “Have you eaten anything today or just guzzled coffee and diet Red Bull? You’re acting kinda jumpy. Five dollars says you’re overcaffeinated.”
    “Something is not right with that guy.”
    “Tell me what you think over food, okay?” She ordered for me, a Paradise Special—eggs, pancakes, French toast, bacon—well done. And a large decaf.
    “Make double sure it’s from the orange pot. No more high test for this girl.”

Five
    I did feel better once I’d eaten. After the lunchtime crowd had thinned out, Babe came back to sit with me and brought over a plate of warm chocolate chip scones. She gave me one. Periodically I checked the door, waiting for Countertop Man to reappear.
    “You know, everyone didn’t go to prep school,” Babe said, “and maybe he doesn’t have a meaningful relationship with his dentist.”
    I’d had a crush on my dentist when I was little—until he hired that big blond dental hygienist. Barbara, I think her name was. I was only eight, but I was no fool. I knew what was going on and I hated her.
    “And so what if he’s a con?” she said, breaking off a hunk of scone. “If he’s out, he’s paid his debt. What are those guys supposed to do—put themselves on ice floes? You gotta be open-minded.”
    Between the deliriously rich scones and my memories of my first crush, I’d lost the thread of the conversation. Prep schools? Ice floes?
    I was surprised to hear Babe talking this way. I’d never givenex-cons and prison recidivism much thought, even less than countertops, but it seemed that Babe had.
    “You see those tables and chairs outside?” she said. “Look pretty good, don’t they? They’re con jobs—refinished by convict labor.”
    “Are you kidding me?”
    She wasn’t. She’d heard about the program from Ms. Baldino, one of the town librarians. Apparently all the benches at the library had been refinished by convicts, too. Who knew?
    “They learn a craft, make a few bucks, and maybe find a different line of work when they get out instead of whatever got them locked up. Everybody wins.” I hadn’t realized convict labor still existed in this century. It seemed so Dickensian. But I suppose I was being naive. There were a lot of things I hadn’t experienced either chained to my desk in New York or buried in my gardens in Springfield.
    After mopping up every last crumb on my plate, I got up to leave. Again I did reconnaissance in the parking lot. Countertop Man was gone, and I felt foolish for ever having been suspicious. Since it was later I went straight to the nursery and bagged the idea of going to Caroline’s. I would see her tomorrow.
    I love