Page 29 of At Midnight Comes the Cry
Sue’s expression, which had been as twinkly as the fairy lights swagged around the living room, closed in on itself. “Oh,” she said flatly. “Those people. You’re not going to find many in this town whowantto know anything about them.”
“We’re not—” Hadley struggled for the right word. “We’re not sympathizers. We’re trying to get our—my-my ex back.” It felt incredibly weird saying that in front of Van Alstyne, even though he didn’t know Flynn reallywasher ex.
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you with any of that. Let me show you your rooms and how the kitchen works before I leave.”
“You’re leaving?”
Apparently, the genial and welcoming hostess had already left. “We’re two houses down, and our number’s right on the phone if you need anything. My husband or I will be back in the morning.”
The rooms upstairs would have been charming if not for the cold wave rolling off Sue. The bright white kitchen was cheery with red and green dishes, and kitted out with everything except food. “If you want to make your own dinner, you’d better get shopping. Closest place that’s open this hour is in North Creek, about forty minutes away.” Sue unhooked two old-fashioned metal keys from a batten board near the kitchen door. “Here are your keys. Good evening to you.” She paused halfway out the door. “I’d appreciate you not bringing anyone else into the inn without my knowing.” Then she was gone.
“Oh my God.” Hadley sat on one of the tall stools beneath the kitchen island. “We’re in a horror movie. Tiny town in the middle of nowhere, a warning about how nobody will speak to us, and then theinnkeeper rushes to get away? There’s going to be a monster coming out of the woods for sure.”
“That would be the Flying Head around here.”
“The what?”
“Iroquois legend. It’s a flying head with tangled hair and teeth like knives. It eats people.”
“Just a head?”
“Yeah, but it’s a really big head.”
She spun around on the stool. “Don’t tell me any more. I’m going to have nightmares as it is. Should we get the food out of the truck?”
“Yeah, but we’re not making dinner. I want to find a place where we can get a few answers along with a meal.”
That place was the Cozy Cafe and Shoppe, less than a mile—or as Van Alstyne put it, “walking distance”—from the inn. She had to admit, he had pegged it; there was barely room for them in the small dining area squeezed between the prep counter and the tiny general store. A sign next to the cash register announced they sold New York State fishing licenses, for maximum convenience. They dropped their parkas at the only open table and went to the counter.
“One-stop shopping,” Hadley said, surveying the wall décor, which leaned heavily toward photos of stags and snowmobiles.
“Well, you put your hook where the fish are biting.” He nodded to the line cook. “I’ll have the Big Bite burger and fries. Medium well.”
“Mac and cheese with a side salad, please.” The chief was getting very folksy. She hoped she wasn’t going to have to listen to hunting stories over dinner. They threaded their way past the other five tables to get to theirs and sat down. “How did you figure there’d be a crowd here on a Tuesday night?”
“Three kinds of people live in tiny little places like this.” He ticked off one finger. “The ones who make a full-time living here; they teach at the school, or they own the gas station or the Cozy Cafe.” He touched another finger. “The ones who work away, which probably means an hour commute every evening.” He tapped the last finger. “Retirees. Those last two like to eat out because they don’t want tobother with cooking, but it’s a tourist area, so they don’t come out on weekends.”
She tried to case the room without staring. Two white-haired couples, a pair of guys who looked like linemen fresh off the job, and another couple in their early thirties. The only table that didn’t match the chief’s reasoning was a young foursome who looked like high schoolers on a date.
“Okay, so how do we find out where the racists are? Stand up and say, ‘Hey, where are de white women at?’” He looked at her, puzzled. “Blazing Saddles,Chief.”
The line cook dinged a bell. “Burger mac ’n’ cheese up.” Van Alstyne stood. He said something she couldn’t make out to the cook, then headed back with just one plate in hand. On the way, he paused between the two oldster tables. He smiled and said, “’Scuse me, folks, but I’m looking for the local militia that’s camping around here. If you know anything, I’d appreciate the information. I’m staying at the inn.”
He slid her plate neatly in front of her and returned to the counter for his burger. This time, he stopped by the thirty-something couple and the linemen to deliver his spiel.
He set down his own plate, overflowing with fries, and sat down. “How’s that?”
“To be honest, you kind of look like a cop.”
He gestured at his flannel shirt and jeans. “I’m in civvies.”
She forked a huge bite of the mac and cheese. “It’s not the clothes.”
“You sound like Clare.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She nodded toward the foursome near the door. “You missed the teens.”
“You think they might know anything?” He looked skeptical. “When I was a kid, I wasn’t thinking about anything except girls and basketball.”
