Fewer people to see Delphine Larue out and about.
More control of the situation for Bohannan.
And then, before I could ask what Jace and Bohannan were talking about, something happened.
Jesse held back, Jace stood to the side, and in a way I wasn’t sure I experienced what I’d just experienced, Bohannan scooted us into the large booth so Celeste and I were crunched together at the back. Bohannan was practically glued to my right side, and Jesse and Jason sat sentry, nearly falling off the ends of the bench seat.
And yet more control of the situation for Bohannan.
Further, an explanation of why his grown sons were invited to dinner (maybe).
However, this seemed overkill.
So I stage-whispered to Bohannan, “Are you packing?”
Celeste giggled.
“Cade Bohannan!”
I jumped.
Okay, maybe not overkill?
“Told you it was gonna be bad,” Jason muttered.
“Kimmy! What’s shakin’?” Jesse asked as a woman wearing a Christmas cardigan (and it was October) and jingle-bell earrings (again, it was October), with a green and red foil-wrapping-bow headband in her hair stopped at the end of our table.
I tensed.
She didn’t spare me a glance.
Or Jesse, who’d spoken to her, for that matter.
She only had eyes for Bohannan.
“Are you finally interested in hearing what I have to tell you?” she asked him.
“Kimmy, we’ve had this conversation,” Bohannan replied with studied patience, which, taking that further, meant they’d had it many times.
“But you never listen.”
Then Bohannan said, “They’re all dead.”
The woman leaned forward.
I pressed into him and grabbed his thigh.
“There’s no statute of limitation for murder,” she snapped.
My fingers dug in.
“The FBI needs to know.” She was getting shrill.
“Kimmy, why don’t you tell me,” Jesse offered.
She turned to him, openly offended. “You don’t even know who John F. Kennedy was.”
“Yes, I do. He was the thirty-fifth president of these United States, assassinated on November twenty-second, 1963, in Dallas, Texas. He was a member of the Democratic Party. The Bay of Pigs was not his best call. But his handling of the Cuban Missile Crisis rocked. Oh…and his wife was hot.”
Christmas lady appeared vaguely impressed.
“Do you know who killed him?” she sniffed.
“I know you know,” Jess returned.
“I do know,” she declared.
Jesse slid out of the booth, deftly taking the vanilla malt out of the hands of the approaching waitress as he led Christmas lady to the bar, saying, “If we’re gonna do anything about it, then I need to know too.”
The platinum-haired waitress waited until they hit the bar before she told Bohannan. “She’s gonna be real pissed when Fidel Castro’s ghost doesn’t stand trial on Court TV.”
Bohannan covered my hand with his, gave it a squeeze, and I decided maybe I should let go.
I did.
And he did.
Which was disappointing.
The waitress pointed the eraser of a pencil to Jace. “You. Fried mushrooms. Reuben with waffle fries. And apple pie, two scoops of cinnamon-vanilla à la mode.”
“Nailed it,” Jason replied.
“You.” She aimed the eraser at Celeste. “I think you’re feeling northwest burger tonight.”
“You always know what I want, Heidi,” Celeste replied.
“Are we waffle fries or curly fries?” she asked Celeste.
“Curly.”
“Gotcha. You.” It was Bohannan’s turn. “Chicken fried steak, extra potatoes and gravy.”
Bohannan just grunted his affirmative.
Her attention came to me. “You’re new, and if you order salad, I’m gonna warn you, I got lettuce, but I don’t remember the last time we switched it out.”
Wasn’t it a mortal sin to go to a diner and order a salad?
“I want to start with a vanilla malt as I peruse the menu,” I told her. “But please, don’t hold everyone else’s food. I can catch up. Also, please tell me you do a patty melt.”
She did not answer me.
She gazed around the diner.
Which was her answer.
No diner worth its salt didn’t serve a patty melt.
She then turned to Bohannan. “I approve. Now, will you please tell Kimmy the mob killed Kennedy?”
Bohannan’s beard semi-smiled.
“Tra-la,” she said and moseyed away.
“I love it here,” I declared, reaching for one of the ginormous trifold laminated menus stuck between the napkin holder and the ketchup and mustard squirty things.
“Their patty melt is really good,” Celeste told me.
“What’s the northwest burger?” I asked.
“Just a regular burger with cheddar cheese that’s made at a local farm.”
“Yum.”
“I’m not a very adventurous eater,” she admitted.
“Is that a prerequisite to get into hair styling school?” I asked.
She giggled again. “I don’t think so.”
“Then don’t worry about it.”
“I bet you’ve eaten in a lot of fancy places.”
“I once spent four thousand dollars to sit for four hours and watch a chef cook all thirty-three teeny-tiny courses I ate, ending in him fanning a river of chocolate over dry ice in front of us and carving each of us a personalized, very pretty chocolate bar.”
“Wow.”
“And I think the best thing I’ve ever eaten is a fried pork tenderloin sandwich I got in a greasy spoon in Dubuque.”
“Really?” she asked.
“I’m not lying,” I answered.
“That must have been a great sandwich.”