The Highway Diner E-Book

Mark Paul Smith

• Herausgeber: BQB Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Twenty-year-old Murray is an aspiring artist who is helping her mother run a struggling truck plaza in Indiana when she falls in love with Ben, a truck driver on hiatus from Stanford University. A shooting at the plaza draws national attention as drivers rally to support and reopen the truck stop. Murray and Ben galvanize "Trucker Nation" into a campaign to stop the hatred poisoning the country. They encourage people to embrace the diversity that keeps the supply chain moving.

The victim of the shooting is the childhood buddy of a psychologically damaged war veteran who hates the federal government and the Teamsters' Union. He calls himself The Commander and sees the Highway Diner as profiting from the death of his friend. He conducts a campaign of intimidation from his heavily armed compound in rural Michigan. When death threats, billboard campaigns, and kidnapping fail, he bombs the plaza. Ben is killed.

Murray's grief and trauma overwhelm her once The Commander is finally defeated. She enrolls in art school at The University of Chicago, but all she can do is cry when she stands in front of her easel. With the help of friends, Murray realizes that being able to paint again is not the final goal of grieving. It is the creative process that helps her wade through the sadness.

Leseprobe

The Highway Diner

© 2024 Mark Paul Smith. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published in the United States by BQB Publishing

(an imprint of Boutique of Quality Books Publishing, Inc.)

www.bqbpublishing.com

ISBN: 979-8-88633-031-1 (p)

ISBN: 979-8-88633-032-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024938700

Book design by Robin Krauss, www.bookformatters.com

Cover design by Rebecca Lown, www.rebeccalowndesign.com

First editor: Caleb Guard

Second editor: Allison Itterly

This book is dedicated to my beloved wife of forty-six years, Jo Ellen Hemphill Smith,

January 10,1945 - October 23, 2023.

Special thanks to alpha reader/editor, Brenda Fishbaugh, who has provided insight and encouragement for each of my five novels.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

Murray daydreamed while looking through the restaurant window, wondering how she could paint the clouds to light up on the canvas just like they brightened in the morning sun. It would take a light blue underlayment before she added gray tones to shape the cumulus. No silver linings. The color contrast could do all the work.

“I think I’ll have me an omelet.” The voice brought her back to earth, where she stood in her apron over the truck driver who was trying to order. “What do you think? The Denver or the Meat Lover?”

She raised her eyebrows slightly. “That depends on how much of a meat lover you are, or if you’re headed to Denver.”

The driver grumbled and looked back at the menu. “I can see you’ll be no help at all.”

“No, no. I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just being a smart ass. The Meat Lover is my favorite. It’s got lots of bacon and sausage and big chunks of ham.”

He smiled as his eyes ran up and down her twenty-year-old body. She hated the way he looked at her, even though she was quite used to it. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t on the menu. He was old enough to be her grandfather. He was fat and gross, hadn’t shaved in days, and his teeth were crooked and yellow. She tried to smile but only crinkled her nose.

After much too long a lecherous pause, he returned his gaze to the menu, holding her hostage with his indecision. Other diners were trying to attract her attention, looking for coffee refills. “Do you need a little more time?”

“No,” he finally responded. “I’ll have the Meat Lover omelet with an English muffin, side of your house potatoes, and coffee black. Oh, and an ice water and a large tomato juice.”

She pretended to write down his order and hurried to the kitchen to yell over the wide metal counter, “Meat Lover, potatoes.” That was all the cooks needed to know. She’d get the muffin, coffee, water, and tomato juice at the server station.

She heard her mother’s gentle, but firm voice of authority over her shoulder. “Write it down, Muriel. Make the ticket now. How many times do I have to tell you? And make sure you get all the drinks, so I know what to ring up.”

Murray hated the name Muriel. By the age of fourteen, she went by Murray. Her mother said Murray sounded too much like a boy’s name. “That’s why I like it,” Murray always responded.

She shook her head in exasperation as she filled out the ticket, clipped it on the wire over the counter for the cooks, and hustled to the tables with a fresh pot of coffee in one hand and a pitcher of ice water in the other. She smiled and bobbed a playful curtsy as she passed her mother. “Happy now?”

Isabel chuckled. “Why, yes, I am. Thank you very much, Muriel.”

Murray’s mother, Isabel Paterson, owned The Highway Diner and the truck plaza on the northwest edge of Fort Wayne, Indiana. She had been running the struggling business like a broken-hearted ship captain since her husband died two years ago in 2020.

Murray knew it was going to be a long day. It was only 9:00 a.m., and she had to work straight through to closing at 10:00 p.m. She didn’t mind the extra hours and tips. She was saving up for art school. For once, the breakfast crowd was so busy that all Murray could do was dash from table to table, carrying heavy trays of buttermilk pancakes and smoked sausage, while dodging clumsy flirtations from a few of the men who had forgotten about their wives back home. She had no time to think about art.

A heavy-set man wearing denim overalls motioned her over to his table. “I wanted to thank you for being so friendly,” he said as he handed her a ten-dollar tip. “Just wanted to make sure you got this. I see they got you hopping.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” Murray said, recognizing the kindness in his eyes and the sincerity in his smile. “Can I give you a warm-up on your coffee?”

“No thank you. I’m on my way out. Gotta make it to Madison, Wisconsin, today. You keep up the good work.”

“I’ll do my best,” Murray said as he got up to leave. “Be safe out there.”

Once the man paid his bill and left, Murray walked up to the cash register and showed her mother the tip. “Ten-dollar tip on a nine-dollar bill from that older guy who just left. Said he liked me being friendly, sweet as can be.”

“That’s nice,” Isabel said. “Most of our guys are good people. I know the ones who heckle you. Their bark is worse than their bite. They’re trying to be friendly, and they don’t know what else to say.” Murray rolled her eyes as Isabel added, “But you already know that.”

“Because you tell me all the time,” Murray laughed. She handed her the ten-dollar bill. “Can you change this for two fives? I’m gonna split it with the guys in the kitchen.”

“That’s my girl, Muriel.”

“We’ve got to keep the crew happy if we want the ship to sail.”

“That’s what your father always said.” Isabel smiled.

The room was filled with good-natured conversations among drivers who were happy to be taking a break from the road. The half-moon counter was centered in front of the kitchen and spanned the twenty-two four-top tables of the main dining area. The room had a ten-foot ceiling, but it never felt crowded, even when it was. The walls were painted a cheerful honey amber and decorated with sepia-toned photographs of historic trucks and trains.

Murray smiled as she approached the table of a casually elegant middle-aged couple. “May I start you off with coffee and water?” she asked, handing each of them a six-page, plastic-coated menu.

“Yes, coffee please.” The woman raised her head from her slumping shoulders. “Jack’s been driving since we left Chicago and the road construction’s been brutal. I’m afraid I’ve been a bit of a backseat driver.”

“From the front seat,” Jack said. “Black for both of us,” he said before Murray had a chance to ask.

Murray began pouring. “So, where you headed?”

“We’re headed to an art show in Cincinnati,” the woman said. “It’s an Oil Painters of America show that looks fantastic.”

“That sounds so exciting,” Murray said. “I’m an artist myself. Or trying to be, anyway.”

The couple looked at her like they wanted to ask what she was doing working as a waitress at a truck stop. Murray answered the unspoken question to break the awkward pause. “I’m saving up for college to major in art.”

The woman smiled. “Good for you. There’s a fantastic art school in Chicago, you know.”

Murray nodded and went off to get their waters, adding a lemon slice just in case. The woman was impressed. “Thank you so much. How did you know we love lemon?”

“I can tell you have good taste.”

“Oh, Julia,” Jack said. “Listen to this one.” Turning to Murray, he said, “You’re gonna go far in this world, kid.”

“Don’t call her a kid, Jack. She’s obviously a talented young woman.”

Murray laughed. “Actually, I still feel like kind of a kid a lot of the time.”

She took their orders, then served them French toast with bacon and fruit cups. Murray thought about how wonderful it would be to travel around the country buying art. She let the couple enjoy their breakfast in peace without quizzing them about their art world.

Her mother always warned her about being too chatty with customers, but Murray usually managed to have a little fun with them. It never ceased to amaze her how many different types of people came into the diner. From truckers to traveling salesmen to visiting royalty, The Highway Diner served them all. The only thing they had in common was being hungry and ready to eat.

Isabel motioned Murray to join her at the register. Murray was sure she was about to get a lecture about daydreaming on the job, but her mother surprised her as she took her in her arms and hugged her tightly. “I just wanted to tell you how much I love watching you work these tables. You get it all done, and you’re never in too much of a hurry to be friendly and kind.”

Murray hugged her mother back. “Thanks, Mom. I love you too.”

With that, Isabel seemed slightly embarrassed at her outburst of maternal emotion and steered her daughter back into the dining room. “All right, that’s enough of a mother-daughter moment. Go get ’em, Muriel.”

Murray went back to her tables with more bounce to her step and a tear playing at the corner of her eye.

Just before noon, a young truck driver caught her attention as he eased his lanky frame into a small table near the server station. He wore black biker boots, faded black jeans with no designer tears, and a black-and-red flannel shirt. His eyes were blue and intelligent. His chin and forehead had a strong Viking look. His hair was blond and shoulder length. He looked to be in his mid-twenties. She noticed his hands and fingernails were clean, no wedding ring.

“Coffee?” Murray asked as she handed him a menu and wondered what this gorgeous man was doing driving a truck. Or maybe he was on a motorcycle or driving a car? She instantly wanted to know everything about him.

His eyes widened as he gazed up at the captivating young woman handing him the menu. Murray was five eleven, with long legs and the athletic build of the volleyball spiker she had been in high school. Her eyes were hazel and sparkling beneath softly angled brown eyebrows that were perfect for her oval-shaped face.

Murray hated to feel herself blushing as she laughed in embarrassment at his stunned reaction. “Should I repeat the question?”

“No, no need.” He tried to recover with a shake of his head. “Yes, please. Coffee, black.”

Murray took a couple steps to the server station and brought him back a coffee and an ice water. “Nice to see you’ve got everything close at hand,” he said as he toasted her with the water.

Murray breathed a silent sigh of relief. He wasn’t coming on to her; he was being friendly. “I’ll give you some time to look at the menu.” She detoured into the women’s room to check herself out in the mirror. “Oh, please,” she scolded as she splashed water on her face and retied her long brown ponytail. “Why would you bother?”

It was easy getting to know the young man as she took his order and served him the Big Breakfast. He was ready to talk after hours of being alone on the road. “Name’s Benjamin Fitzgerald,” he said. “I’m driving a Peterbilt semi from Oakland, California, to Detroit, Michigan.”

“I’m Murray. How long you been driving a truck, Benjamin?”

“Actually, it’s just Ben,” he said. “I don’t know why I said ‘Benjamin.’ My mother’s the only one who calls me that.” Murray smiled and waited for him to continue. “I been driving truck less than a year,” he said. “Dropped out of college after my junior year, got into advertising for a few years. Long story. I won’t bore you.”

As Murray wondered how and why he got into trucking, Ben looked around her and asked, “Is that your sister working the register?”

Murray laughed. “No. I get that a lot. She’s my mother. We own this place. Or, I should say, she owns it. I’ll tell her what you said. She always gets a kick out of it.”

“She reminds me of my mother,” Ben said. “They both still look so young.”

“Well, she still treats me like her baby girl. She just gave me a hug and told me what a good job I was doing. But usually I can’t get through ten minutes around here without her telling me how to do something better.”

Ben laughed in delight. “That’s the thing about mothers. They’re always going to be our mothers. They’re going to worry and try to protect us, no matter what we do. I used to think I could get my mother to stop being so motherly. Now, I hope she never does. Like, I used to hate it when she ran her fingers through my hair to spruce me up. Now, I don’t mind it at all. In fact, I miss it when she doesn’t do it.”

Murray knew she needed to be moving on to the next table, but she was curiously attracted to Ben by the way he talked about his mother. He looked so rugged on the outside. She was surprised and flattered by how quickly he showed her his gentle side. Murray noticed him becoming self-conscious as he stroked his chin with his hand. “You probably think I’m some momma’s boy now.”

Murray realized she had been staring at him. She straightened up and pulled on her ponytail. “Not at all. Not in the slightest. It’s just downright refreshing to hear a man talk about his mother like you do. I want to hear more, but I got tables to cover. Don’t go away. I’ll be back.”

As she floated from table to table, Murray tried hard not to look at Ben to see if he was watching her. Every time she caught him out of the corner of her eye, he was following her every move. She was slightly out of breath when she got back to him. “So how am I doing?” she asked. “More coffee?”

“Yes, please,” he said, shifting awkwardly in his chair. “And I know I shouldn’t be this forward, but it feels like it would be good for us to—I don’t know—take some time and get to know each other.”

“Are you asking me out?” Murray spoke more bluntly than she had intended.

“Not like on a date or anything. I mean, I’m not trying to pick you up. Oh man, I’m messing this up.”

“A date sounds like fun,” Murray reassured him. “You are not messing anything up.”

Suddenly, a young woman in a short skirt with black fishnet stockings and a pink shirt torn half off her back came screaming into the restaurant.

“Isabel, Murray . . . call the cops. Red’s trying to kill me. He’s after me. He’s got a gun.”

At the mention of the word gun, several diners drew handguns. Isabel grabbed her cell phone and dialed 911. Murray produced a Glock 9 mm pistol from a waistband holster in a bread drawer by the coffee pot. As she was pointing her weapon toward the door, she noticed Ben pointing his own Glock in the same direction.

The screaming woman ran into the ladies’ room. It was Anita, Murray’s good friend from school and a former employee of the diner. Whoever was chasing her would be a dead man before he made it through the door.

“Hold your fire until you see a weapon,” one of the armed diners commanded.

Just then, a man in flip-flops, jeans, and a T-shirt came strolling innocently into the restaurant, fresh from the showers at the convenience center and store adjoining the restaurant. He did a triple take and dropped his towel and gym bag as he saw what looked like a firing squad pointing their weapons at his chest. He looked around nervously, but quickly dropped to his knees and put his hands over his head. “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot. I didn’t do anything.”

“Hold your fire,” the diner who assumed command shouted. He was stocky and bald, with a dark shadow of a beard, wearing black jeans and a blue sport coat. “This is not our guy.” He pointed to the man. “Get under that table and keep your head down. Might be trouble headed our way.”

Diners sitting near the only window on the front wall screamed warnings and hit the floor when they saw a man in the parking lot with a handgun taking aim at the diner.

Gunshots ripped into the outside wall of the restaurant. A bullet shattered the window and whizzed through the diner, smashing an old International Harvester truck photo on the back wall. Diners covered their heads with their hands and arms as the crashing cymbals of breaking glass shattered the peace.

“Stay low,” roared the diner who had taken charge. “Get on the floor.”

The shooter methodically emptied an eight-shot clip into the building. Most of the bullets hit the wall. He took his time. There were long pauses between shots. He was screaming, “Anita. I know you’re in there.” Blam! “Get your sorry ass on out here. I’m not done with you.” Blam! “You stole from me, girl.” Blam!

Each shot shook the restaurant with its thunder and shuddering impact. A few terrorized diners shrieked and wailed. Others were stunned into silence by the threat of sudden death. A bullet entered the roof and ricocheted down through the ceiling, exploding a full coffee pot and the machine that was keeping it warm. People at the half-moon counter had slid off the chrome stools with red Naugahyde seats and hit the floor when the first shot rang out. Diners who were on the floor crawled under tables. There was no safe place to hide. Murray was on her hands and knees, crawling toward her mother across the ceramic-vinyl tile floor. There is no way some crazy fool is going to take my mother out. No way. Not today.

The shooting and screaming stopped after the eighth shot. Murray froze and held her breath to listen, assuming that the shooter must be reloading. The silence seemed more deafening than the shooting. Her ears were ringing. The spinning world was slowing down like a merry-go-round running out of energy. Just when she thought the shooter had left, a much louder shot rang out that sounded like a hunting rifle. She worried the shooter had switched to a more powerful weapon, but no additional bullets struck the restaurant.

An eerie quiet descended outside. Nobody said a word until the silence was broken by a man calling out, “All clear. We got him. All clear. Show’s over.”

“Don’t anybody move,” the take-charge man said. “It could be a trick.”

Traumatized diners huddled in fear on the floor until they heard sirens as police and paramedics arrived. Isabel had the dispatchers on the line. “It is over,” she said loud enough for everyone in the diner to hear. “The shooter is down. A trucker shot him in the back with a rifle. They’re advising us not to leave the restaurant for now.”

A wary trucker in a jean jacket with motorcycle club insignia on the back looked out the shattered window and said, “I see the shooter is down in the parking lot. Some people are . . . no wait, it’s the medics. They’re all around him. Looks like he’s not getting up any time soon.”

Murray got off the floor as Ben rushed to her side. They collapsed into each other in a brief embrace of relief, each still holding a handgun. Ben was bigger and stronger than he looked sitting down. He was six-three, two hundred pounds. Murray felt herself catch her breath as she realized how wonderful he smelled. She couldn’t place it. It wasn’t cologne or deodorant. Maybe a body wash. Oh my God, she thought, I smell like bacon and onions.

Her mother’s voice brought her out of the embrace that had lasted a little too long. “Come on, you two. At least holster your guns before you start making out in my restaurant.”

Murray and Ben separated quickly, embarrassed at falling into the arms of a near total stranger. Ben tried to recover. “Man, that was intense. I thought I was going to have to shoot somebody. I mean, I thought we were going to shoot somebody.”

Isabel put her hands on her hips, threw back her head, and laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Murray demanded as she tucked the handgun behind her back. She wondered how her mother could laugh when she was still shaking in her shoes.

Isabel had to bend over at the waist to catch her breath from what had turned into a hoot and howl. Her nervous laughter was exaggerated by the adrenaline of a near-death experience. When she raised up, Ben was holstering his pistol beneath his shirt. Others who had drawn handguns were doing the same. Murray glared at her mother, failing to find humor in the traumatic situation.

“I’m sorry,” Isabel said, catching her breath. “It’s just, I never saw love at first sight while locked and loaded.”

Murray looked at Ben. They smiled at each other but were still in too much shock to understand the emotions of the moment. Ben turned to help an older couple out from under a table. The gray-haired man tried to make a joke as he grabbed his wife’s arm. “Getting down was a lot easier than getting up,” he said as they stood up and began sobbing in each other’s arms.

Murray and Isabel checked on their customers as they emerged from underneath booths and tables. Everyone was dazed. The gunshots had been so loud as to be disorienting. People were quivering and weeping tears of relief at having survived. A husband-and-wife truck driving team held each other’s shaking hands, trying to regain their emotional equilibrium. Isabel sat them down at the counter and brought them water and fresh coffee. The cooks came out of the kitchen to help calm everyone and try to settle their own racing hearts. Everyone was shell-shocked by the gunfire. The electrifying experience had been terrifying.

Gregor, the head cook, was trembling so badly he could barely hold a cup of coffee. “I thought we were all going to die,” he moaned as Isabel helped him take a seat at a table and rubbed his shoulders. “It was so loud I thought it would never end.” He buried his face in his hands, embarrassed by his loss of control.

The take-charge guy turned out to be a retired detective. He let out a puffy-cheek breath that became a low whistle. “That was some serious action. All that combat drama makes me want to say the first round’s on me. I hope somebody in this place has some whiskey.”

“I’ve got a bottle of Jack Black,” Isabel said. “We’re only licensed for beer and wine, but what the heck! Drastic times call for plastic measures.” She lined up plastic cups for shot glasses on the counter and poured a round. At least ten people stepped up for a shot. Most hands were unsteady as they raised the whiskey cups. Isabel proposed a toast. “Here’s to surviving the insanity,” she said solemnly.

Her toast was saluted by a subdued chorus of here-here’s and amen’s. Once the drinks were downed, Isabel followed with a more somber thought, “And may God help the troubled soul who lost his mind today.”

No one responded to her second gesture. Several diners held out their cups for a refill.

As the retired detective left to check outside, Murray heard pounding on the ladies’ room door and realized her frightened friend was afraid to come out. “Hold on, Anita. I’m coming.”

She tried to open the door, but it was locked. “Anita, unlock the door. It’s okay. It’s all over now.”

“Did they kill him?” Anita was sobbing as she opened the door. “Oh, please God, tell me they didn’t kill him.” Mascara was running down her face. She took one look at Murray and collapsed in a heap of sadness under the sink opposite the toilet. “It was Red. Red Mavis. You met him. He’s a sweet, sweet guy. I might even love him. Always pays in advance. Tips great. Then he got so crazy it wasn’t him anymore. He got into the meth way too heavy. Please tell me they didn’t kill him.”

Murray helped Anita to her feet. “What did he do to you? Are you hurt?”

Anita looked at herself in the mirror. She was five inches shorter than Murray, but every bit as pretty: full, smirky lips, slightly turned-up nose, and wide-set hazel eyes. “Oh my God. I’m a mess,” she said, beginning to wash her face gingerly. “I was smoking crack and meth with him. I’m shaking so bad. I don’t know what I’m doing. Please tell me he’s all right.”

“We don’t know how he is,” said Murray. “We can’t leave the restaurant right now.” She gritted her teeth. “Oh, God, Anita. You’ve got a nasty cut on your right cheek. It’s bleeding bad. It’s bruising up already. Did he hit you? Don’t tell me he hit you with his gun. You’re lucky he didn’t kill you. We’re lucky he didn’t kill us all.”

Anita swooned and fell to her knees. She would have collapsed to the floor if Murray hadn’t scooped her up. “Look at you, Anita. You’re skin and bones. How could we let this happen to you? I told you a hundred times to quit tricking, but you laughed in my face. Now look at you. You look like a ghost—a beat-up ghost.”

Anita sobbed. “Don’t, Murray. Don’t say it. Don’t say ‘I told you so.’ I know I should have kept working with you. You were always the strong one. And I was weak. I’m still weak. Look at me. I went for the easy money. I was going to get out. But look at me now. I’m a mess. I didn’t quit. And now it’s too late.”

Murray wrapped her arms around her friend and hugged her gently. “I’m not going to say I told you so. I should have seen this coming. We all should have gotten you into rehab a long time ago. It’s not too late, Anita. You just got a wake-up call, that’s all. You’re going to be fine. Go ahead and cry. It’s good to cry. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

Isabel knocked on the bathroom door. “Muriel, are you in there? Everything okay?”

“Come on in, Mom. It’s open.”

Isabel walked in carrying two shots of whiskey and set them on the counter. Murray released Anita from the hug. “Oh, my sweet Jesus,” Isabel said. “Anita, look what he’s done to you. Your eye’s red with blood. Your whole face is battered. Good Lord, we’d better get you to a doctor.”

“No, no, no,” Anita’s voice was desperately hoarse. “I’ve got drugs in my purse, and they’ll find my fingerprints all inside his truck. I can’t get arrested. I’m still on probation.”

Isabel handed a shot to Murray, who swallowed it whole. She handed the second shot to Anita. “You look like you could use this, but are you sure you want it?”

Anita blasted back the whiskey like a gunslinger in a saloon.

“Okay, now. You’re okay?” Murray asked Anita. “You’re not going to puke?”

“I can cope,” Anita croaked.

Murray picked up Anita’s purse off the floor and emptied it on the sink counter. Several bottles of pills, a small bag of weed, and two baggies of crack and meth spilled out. Isabel gasped in horror as Murray emptied out the contraband, poured it into the toilet, and flushed the evidence.

“There,” Murray said. “So much for violating probation.”

Anita collapsed on the floor before Murray or Isabel could catch her. The sight of her drugs going away in a swirl was too much for her. “It doesn’t matter,” she swooned. “They’re gonna drug test me anyway.”

A knock on the door startled the three women.

Ben cracked open the door. “Sorry to intrude, but the cops are wanting to talk to the owner and all the witnesses.”

Murray looked at her mother. “You go, Mom. I’ll take care of Anita.”

Isabel pointed her finger at Murray. “Don’t even think about sneaking her out of here. She’s hurt. She needs a doctor. She’s in shock. Stay down, Anita. I’ll get paramedics to come in here and carry you out on a stretcher. You’re the victim here, nothing else. And, by God, you’ll look like a victim getting hauled out of here. God damn it, Anita, I don’t know why you wouldn’t listen to me. I told you this kind of trouble would happen. You could have gotten us all killed.”

Anita put her hands over her face and sobbed. She sounded pathetic and hopeless. Isabel softened and kneeled beside her. “Come on now, girl. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be hard on you. Guess my nerves are still pretty shot. You know I love you.”

Anita pulled her hands off her face and sniffled somewhat hopefully. “I love you too, Isabel.”

Ben backed out of the door as Isabel rose and offered one last bit of advice. “Just remember, Anita, don’t confess anything to the police. You weren’t tricking, you weren’t doing drugs, you were on your way to lunch when you got attacked. You got that?”

Anita raised her right hand in appreciation as Isabel left the restroom.

CHAPTER TWO

The ambulance arrived with flashing lights and a screaming siren. Paramedics turned off the siren but kept the lights flashing as they jumped out and rushed into the diner with Murray showing them the way. The medics took one look at Anita and loaded her onto a stretcher. Anita lifted her head up as much as she could with the brace around her neck and safety straps across her body.

“Did they kill him?”

Murray was by her side as they lifted Anita into the ambulance. “Don’t you worry about that right now. Relax as much as you can.” She whispered in Anita’s ear, “Don’t say anything. The cops don’t need to know you care about Red. The less they know, the better.”

Anita closed her eyes, understanding. Murray stepped away from the ambulance and waved as it pulled away. The front window of the diner was shattered, as well as the long, narrow sign on top of the building that said, “The Highway Diner.” She had hand-painted the black letters on a white background six months ago. How could anyone violate such a wholesome, homemade place as this? Her fear and shock were simmering into an angry stew.

Ben walked toward her with open arms. She leaned into him for a careful hug. Only then did she cry. The gunfire had been whipping her emotions into a fine frenzy for the last hour. She settled into a terrible sadness.

She’d never felt this way before: humiliated, abused even. One crazy man with a gun had scarred so many lives. The coffee pot shattering could have been a person. She pulled away from Ben.

Isabel’s face was drawn and distraught. The adrenaline had worn off. She’d been crying too. Murray grabbed her mother like they hadn’t seen each other in years. “Oh, Mom. I was crawling across the floor with my gun to get to you.”

They cried in each other’s arms. “Your daddy would’ve been so proud of you, Muriel,” she said. They stared at each other in the silent relief of shocked survivors. Ben turned to walk away, but Isabel grabbed his arm and brought him into the hug. “Get over here, young man. You’re in this too.”

The detective in charge of the investigation walked over to ask a few questions. Isabel wiped her eyes with a tissue and beat him to the punch. “How’s the man who shot up my restaurant?”

The detective looked at the ground as if deciding whether to respond. He loosened his tie, kicked at a piece of gravel, and blurted, “He’s dead. One bullet in the back, straight through the heart, massive exit wound. They took him out in an ambulance, but he’s going to the morgue. The guy who shot him is a deer hunter. It’s his first human, though. He’s pretty shook up.”

“We all are,” Isabel said. “More than shaken up. We’re devastated. You never think something like this could happen here. Then it does, and you wonder why you didn’t see it coming. Guess this means the restaurant shuts down. How long do you think? One week? Two?”

“We’ll be done by late tonight,” the detective said. “After that, it’s up to you.”

“Okay,” Isabel said. She turned to Murray and said, “Looks like we’d better get back in there to clean her up and close her down. We’re out of business for now.”

“Couple questions first, if you don’t mind,” the detective said. He took a note pad and pen out of his wrinkled sport coat. “What can you tell me about the woman he beat up? What was her relationship to Red Mavis?”

Isabel straightened as if someone had poured cold water down her back. “You’re talking about Anita. Anita Montgomery. She’s beat up bad. She’s only nineteen years old. She’ll be twenty soon. I know her well. She used to work here as a waitress.”

“What about her relationship to Mr. Mavis?”

Isabel frowned. “If you’re talking about the asshole who beat up my girl and shot up my restaurant, I don’t know anything about that.”

The detective looked at Murray, and she responded, “She stopped working here about a year ago, but she still comes in to eat pretty regularly.”

“She’s a friend of yours?”

“I’d say so, yes.”

The detective tilted his head and leaned in ever so slightly. “Then you know she’s on probation for a prostitution charge?”

Murray didn’t flinch. “I do know that, but I also know she was cleaning up her act to make it through probation.”

The detective looked at Ben, who shook his head. “I’m just driving through, Oakland to Detroit. First time here.”

The detective wrote down his information. “Any idea why Red was so mad at her?”

Murray answered, “Probably looking for a trick and she wouldn’t cooperate.”

“Okay, then,” the detective said with an exaggerated exhale as he put away his pen and notebook. “This isn’t really about Anita, anyway. And the only one who committed a crime is deceased. So, I guess that’s all the questions I have for now.”

Murray and Isabel thanked the detective. “I’ll be done in a couple hours,” Murray said to Ben.

Ben smiled. “See you then.”

The diner was quiet by the time Ben walked back in at 4:30 p.m. Chairs were stacked on the tables, and the floor was still shining wet from mopping. Murray pretended to be surprised to see him. “Ben. You came back. I was hoping you would. We’re closed now, for how long we don’t know. Maybe we can go somewhere and talk.”

Isabel came out of the kitchen and opened her arms for Ben. “I need a hug,” she said. “My restaurant has yellow police tape all around it. Looks like I’ll be closed for who knows how long. Give the public a little time to forget somebody got killed in my parking lot.”

“Oh, Mom, I shouldn’t leave you here tonight.”

“No, no. You two go. Talk it out. Try to make some sense out of this crazy day. I’ve got Lois and Jean coming over for a little red wine support group.”

“Are you sure?” Murray gave her mother a kiss on the cheek.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Turning to Ben, she said, “Make sure you have her home sometime tonight.”

Ben gave her a grateful smile. “I’ll have her home by midnight.”

Murray drove her trusty, rusty Toyota pickup truck. They swung by her house so Murray could change out of her work clothes. Ben waited in the pickup, but he didn’t have to wait long. Murray raced into the house looking like a truck stop waitress and emerged a few moments later in black skinny jeans and a red tunic sweater, two inches taller in black suede ankle boots.

“Whoa, Wonder Woman,” Ben said as he jumped out of the pickup to fully appraise her new look. “You’re making me feel underdressed.”

Murray got back behind the wheel and looked at Ben. “You look fine. You don’t smoke do you?”

He laughed. “What is this? A job interview?”

“No, I just don’t let anyone smoke in my truck.”

“Neither do I,” Ben said. “Not even marijuana.”

“So, you do get high?”

“Nah. The company drug tests its drivers. How about you?”

“I stay away from that. I see what it does to people. Mom and I stick to booze.”

“But didn’t you tell me you’re not twenty-one?” He poked her playfully on the shoulder.

“Please,” Murray laughed. “It won’t be long. And by the way, I know this is a little weird, but I’ve got to stop at the hospital to see Anita before we go anywhere else. You could come in with me or you could wait in the car.”

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Good answer,” Murray said. “So, okay. Come in with me. We won’t be long.”

Ben pretended to open the automatic front door for her as they walked into the hospital. Murray bobbed a playful curtsey before sobering her mood at the information desk. She was pleased when he got serious and offered his hand as they walked down the hall to Anita’s room. Murray accepted his emotional support. The shooting had shaken her to the core.

Anita was resting fitfully on a morphine drip for a broken cheekbone, multiple facial contusions, and two broken ribs. Her right eye was bruised purple and swollen shut. Murray bent down closely to whisper the good news about the police investigation not focusing on her. Anita nodded weakly and said, “I hope nobody checks the blood they’ve been taking from me.”

“Don’t worry,” Murray said. “Remember, this is nothing but a wake-up call. By the way, this is Ben. He was in the diner when the shooting started.”

Anita nodded to Ben. “I hear they killed Red,” she whispered.

“Afraid so. I’m sorry, Nita. I know you cared about him.”

“Did he suffer?”

“No, he probably didn’t even feel it.”

Anita closed her eyes. A tear worked its way down her bruised cheek.

“How are you doing?” Murray asked.

Before she could answer, a nurse came in and suggested Anita needed to rest. Murray kissed Anita on the forehead and said goodbye.

Neither Ben nor Murray said a word until they were out of the hospital and back in the pickup. “What a day,” Murray said. “I’m completely drained. I feel so sorry for Anita. Somebody she really cared about got shot to death, and here I am saying he probably didn’t feel a thing. Was that insensitive?”

“Not at all,” Ben responded quickly.

Murray drove them to the Old Crown Coffee Roasters Bistro. “It’s a nice, quiet place. We can have coffee and talk, or we can have cocktails. The food’s good here too.”

“I could use a beer myself,” Ben said. “Maybe two or three beers. I’ve never been shot at before. You can see it in the movies your whole life and never have any idea what a game changer it is.”

“It paralyzed me at first,” Murray said. “Then I thought about Mom, and I got so mad I wanted to kill the bastard. And then he was dead, and we all felt bad about it. It’s been a real roller coaster of a day. I’ve been sick to my stomach since the shooting, but now I’m famished.”

“A burger would hit the spot,” Ben said. “I’m hungry too. It’s not every day you get involved in a shootout and meet a woman who takes your breath away.” He paused to check her reaction.

Murray glanced at Ben and smiled as she undid her seat belt. “And now I’m ready for a shot of whiskey and a beer. I need to blow off a little steam. They won’t card me here. I know the bartenders. And, yeah, a burger does sound good.”

Ben paused, then said, “There’s something you need to know, Murray.”

Oh no. He’s going to tell me he has a girlfriend.

“I’m not the kind of guy who gets serious with a woman on the first date. It’s just that everything feels so right with you. And what a bizarre coincidence! What are the chances of us getting together in the middle of a shootout?”

“I know,” Murray said, breathing a sigh of relief. “It’s almost spooky.”

Before they got out of the car, Ben switched conversational gears and said, “Hey, you mentioned you’re an artist. What kind of art are you into?”

“I mainly draw now, but I want to be a painter someday.”

“I’d like to see your artwork sometime.”

“You can see it right now,” Murray said as she reached over and retrieved a nine-by-twelve-inch sketch pad from behind the passenger seat.

Ben opened the book and studied the first few drawings, nodding appreciatively. He paused when he came to a figure study of a young woman staring up at a light and holding her hand over her head. “This is good. It looks like she’s reaching for enlightenment.”

Murray nudged him with her shoulder. “Thanks. That’s from when I was in high school. Keep going, they get better.”

“I can see that,” Ben said, turning pages until he came to a landscape drawing of an oak tree on a hill with a man on horseback in the distance. “Murray, you are really talented. Look at the perspective. The rider, the tree. It’s perfect. I love the shadow shading.”

“I see you know something about art.”

“My mother was a painter when I was growing up. She always joked about how people say they don’t know much about art but they know what they like. Then later, she came around to saying that’s all that matters, what you like. It’s all about whether a painting speaks to you. And, let me say, your work speaks to me loud and clear.”

“You said your mother was an artist. Does that mean she’s not with us anymore?”

Ben thought about the question so long that Murray wished she hadn’t asked it. Then he closed the sketchbook with a heavy sigh. “She’s still with us, but she doesn’t paint anymore. She stopped when my father ran off with one of his nurses.” He paused as if to let the sadness sink in, then said, “That was a few years ago. Mom and Dad are divorced now. She’s planning on getting back into her art, but she hasn’t been able to do it yet.”

“I’m sorry to hear all that, Ben,” Murray said. “I hope she gets back to painting. It’s what I want to do more than anything. It makes me feel so . . . I don’t know . . . so alive, I guess.”

Ben’s eyes widened. “That’s exactly what she always says. Amazing. It must be something artists say.”

“Not just artists,” Murray said. “People say that about what they love to do. I’ll bet there’s some happy plumbers out there who say the same thing.”

Ben laughed with her. “No doubt. So, how does waiting tables at a truck stop fit into your plan?”

Murray considered his tone. It was straight forward. He wasn’t asking the question like working at a truck stop was a bad thing or beneath her. He seemed genuinely interested in what she wanted to do with her life. “Mom really needs the help right now. It’s been hard on her since my father died. But what I’m really doing is saving up for art school.”

“Sounds like a good plan.” He leaned in and kissed her gently.

CHAPTER THREE

“Heard you come in around midnight last night,” Isabel said as she poured herself a steaming hot coffee and sat down at the kitchen table in her purple pajamas and blue kimono robe. “You two were on the front porch so long I was afraid you were going to invite him in for a sleepover. Then you left and came back. What happened?”

Murray was puzzled until she remembered. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot about that. Ben walked me to the front door and we got so carried away talking that we forgot he was riding in my truck so I had to take him back to his truck.”

Isabel nodded and smiled.

Murray smelled bacon in the oven as she headed for the coffee in her oversized Notre Dame sweatshirt. “You slept in. It’s almost nine thirty. Smells like you’ve been busy. What time did you get up?”

“I was up at the usual five o’clock until I remembered we don’t have a restaurant today. Damn fool shot us up and right out of business for who knows how long.” She took a pouty sip of coffee.

Murray pulled her mother into a hug. “It’s going to be all right. We’ll be back in business in no time.”