Read Online Flipped For Murder by Maddie Day - Free Book Online Page B

breakfast, one I didn’t have to cook. Spying on the competition wasn’t a bad idea, either. I’d looped up through Beanblossom on my way, and smiled as always when I passed the Mennonite church, which featured a prominent sign that read STRANGERS EXPECTED . I’d never gotten around to asking anyone what it really meant, but the words brought to mind science fiction or the magical realism I’d read in Gabriel García Márquez’s works in college.
    Stopping a couple doors down from Kowalski’s, which sat just outside the artsy, touristy county seat, I put my foot on the ground and examined the storefront. It featured a porch overhang like mine, but so much kitsch clogged the porch there wasn’t space for even one chair. I loved the refurbished rocking chairs in front of Pans ‘N Pancakes, and folks had occupied them now and then over the weekend. Here an old wooden plow vied for space with an oak barrel short a few staves, a rusty hay rake, a low wrought-iron table that could use refinishing, or at least a paint job, and a boatload of other antiques, sort of. I squinted. There was actually a rocking chair amidst the junk, but no way to get close enough to sit in it. The paint peeled off the porch railing, and the middle of each stair tread swayed like the back of an old mare.
    I rode the last few yards, locked my cycle in front of the store, and unclipped my helmet. A bell dinged as I pushed the door open. Not an actual bell on the door, though, but an automatic alert someone had entered or left. A long counter lined with round-seated diner stools faced the left wall, with the kitchen visible through a wide order window. Several dozen tired aluminum tables were arrayed in the middle of the space with chairs surrounding them; the restaurant could probably accommodate twice as many customers as mine. Most of the chairs were occupied by folks who looked like they often indulged in big starchy, greasy breakfasts. And since it was a Monday morning, they were either tourists, retirees, or both.
    An older waitress dressed in black breezed by, saying, “Sit anywhere you want, dear.”
    First I scanned the room and located the restroom. I needed to wash up after my ride. A few minutes later I emerged with clean hands. I’d splashed water on my face, too. The restroom was dingy but clean. Whoever the decorator was, he or she must be long dead—the decor looked that exhausted. The walls of the hall where I stood were lined with framed pictures. I examined them, one by one, as I strolled by holding my helmet. They were mostly of Ed with various groups of townspeople: Ed with the current state representative; Ed receiving a Rotary Club award; Ed with four other men on the golf course; Ed with a cluster of Boy Scouts.
    I stopped at one of them and peered more closely. It was of Ed in younger days, with his arm slung over Stella’s shoulders. And Stella was actually smiling. I made my way to the counter and took a seat on one of the red vinyl stools.
    The same waitress I’d seen earlier slapped a paper place mat doubling as a menu in front of me. “Coffee?”
    â€œPlease.” I studied the menu.
    She returned in a minute with a thick mug and a pot of coffee. “Was you wanting to order?”
    â€œI’ll take the blueberry pancakes with sausage, and a side of biscuits and gravy.” If I was here to assess the competition, I might as well go whole hog. So far, my place was cleaner, brighter, and more interesting. But it was also in a much smaller town. Nashville brought tourists literally by the busload, especially at this time of year.
    It didn’t take more than a couple of minutes for a steaming platter of food to be set in front of me. I thanked the waitress and tucked into it. First I took a bite of pancake. It was of the white-flour variety that I didn’t care for. These were particularly pasty and the blueberries tasted cooked, not fresh. When I