Hearse of a Different Color (Hitchcock Sewell Mysteries) by Tim Cockey Read Free Book Online Page A

on your mood. Here and there I spotted some locals, some big-haired gals, some Budweiser boys. But primarily the clientele appeared to be businessmen, out-of-towners from the nearby Ramada and Marriot and … shudder, Charm Inn. Loud talking and loud laughing is a big part of the game when businessmen get together to unwind on the company’s expense account, as is the clinking of glasses and a never-ending spiral of meaningless toasts. Plenty of this was going on. A beefy fellow at one of the tables was giddily stacking a pyramid of empty glasses to the forced amusement of the poor man’s Ivana Trump who was clinging to his shoulder. A few tables over a triad of business buddies were swapping war stories at a fever pitch. A mute redhead packed into a tight paisley dress was seated at the table, patiently tracing circles with her fingernail around the rim of her glass. I watched as one of the waitresses—dressed exactly as Helen Waggoner had been dressed the night she was dumped off at my door—lingered over at the bar to chat up two salesman types. One of them told a joke. Funny or not, all three laughed.
    I turned to Bonnie, whose eyes were also darting everywhere at once, and asked, “Do you see it?”
    She nodded. “Meat Market. The people here are way too pumped up.”
    Tucked into practically every other table being occupied by these garrulous minions of industry was at least one woman who didn’t quite look like she belonged. Or rather,
did
look like she belonged. They were easy to spot. The large, false laugh. The long steady stare. The touchy-feely …
    Our waitress came over to take our order. She too was dressed exactly like Helen Waggoner had been the other night. The similarity ended there. She had bad skin, a round flat face, steel-wool hair and a boxy figure. Apparently she had some dust in one of her contact lenses. Her mouth hung open as she stood poking her finger into her eye. She looked like the village idiot. Her name tag identified her as “Gail.”
    “Something to drink?”
Poke. Poke.
    I ordered a whiskey. So did Bonnie. I realized I was hungry, so I also ordered a grilled cheese with bacon and an order of fries. Bonnie ordered a salad. Gail wrote down our order and left. She was still poking her eye.
    “Your heart’s going to love you in about ten years,” Bonnie said.
    When Gail brought our drinks, her gaze snagged on Bonnie.
    “I know you. You look familiar.” She was flattening her empty tray against her breasts and rocking slightly. Bonnie tugged on her cap, avoiding eye contact.
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Yes I do! You’re the one does the weather on TV, aren’tcha? Wow.”
    Bonnie conceded that she was.
    “Wow! That’s cool. Were you like, on TV tonight and all?”
    “I was.”
    “Cool.”
    Gail continued to stand there, hugging her tray and staring at Bonnie as if this was her brand-new occupation. The waitress was probably around the same age as Bonnie—twenty-five—which was both a sad and frightening thought. Bonnie made a silent appeal to me from beneath the Orioles cap. I downed my whiskey in a single burning gulp. Ouch. House brand. Sinbad’s finest rot. I held my empty up to the hypnotized girl.
    “Gail, how about another whiskey. And could you make this one a Wild Turkey? For that matter …” I reached over and slid Bonnie’s untouched drink to the edge of the table. “How about we upgrade Miss Nash while we’re at it?”
    “Sure.” Gail scooped up our glasses and set them on her tray. “Two Turkeys,” she said, then left. I cocked an eyebrow at Bonnie.
    We went back to scanning the room. I spotted four other waitresses, all dressed like Helen. It was a little creepy. The waitresses each wore nylon fanny packs, in this case used as money belts, to make change right at the tables. I pointed this out to Bonnie.
    “Helen wasn’t wearing a money belt when we found her.”
    “I hardly think somebody killed her for a handful of cash. Those things can’t