SAFELY BURIED Chapter 4: Mackey’s Grill

My boss, Edward J. Wylie, owner and publisher of the Gleaner, which had been in his family since the late nineteenth century, came out of his office as soon as he saw me.

“Why in God’s name did you pick up a floozie like that?” he demanded. “Wait, don’t tell me. I don’t mean to pry into your personal life.” He gave me a big grin and a big laugh.

“You know me,” I said, “I always pick up women with broken legs.”

He was thickset, broad-shouldered, and nearly bald. His round pink head fringed with silky white hair made him look like Friar Tuck. He was an intense guy, manic at times, especially when the paper had a big scoop.

“I’m glad you do!” he bellowed, leading the way to his office. “And I’m glad the sheriff didn’t tell the damn radio stations last night. They came out with the story this morning, of course, but they had to read it in the paper first. At least they gave us credit for once. If they hadn’t, I’d have sued their asses off. Did you hear what they had to say about you?”

I shook my head.

“They’re calling you the Good Samaritan.”

“Success at last—I’m a cliche. Do I get a raise?”

He chortled again. “No, but I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. Let’s go to Mackey’s.”

I was always willing to get out of the office for another cup of coffee.

We walked up Main Street past the Courthouse. Another hot day was shaping up. Wispy threads of cloud hung in the bright blue sky with a fingernail moon that looked like another wispy cloud.

Mackey’s Grill had four or five customers besides us. Since my wife had moved out, I ate breakfast there three or four times a week, and sometimes lunch, when I didn’t skip it. The restaurant was squeezed in between the drugstore on the corner and a law office. Most of its neon sign had burned out years ago, but it had a brand-new glass and aluminum door. A warped poster for the Meridian County Fair leaned against one of the grimy front windows. We sat in our usual booth in the back, next to a 1950s-style jukebox on one side of us and a vinyl-covered swinging door on the other. The door flew at us whenever a waitress burst out of the kitchen with a tray.

A big blonde waitress smacked two glasses of water on the table. “What’ll it be today, boys?”

“Two coffees, Harriet,” Edward said, “—if it’s still fresh.”

She whirled away toward the glass pots on the burners. “It’s as fresh as it was yesterday, Sweetie,” she said over her shoulder.

“I told you not to talk to me like I’m an old man,” Edward called after her.

I liked Edward. I couldn’t have worked for him so long if I hadn’t. He was a glad-hander, a civic booster, a bottom-liner, but he wanted to put out a real newspaper. The news came first, no matter whose toes got stepped on. Once, after the owner of a supermarket pulled his ads because we wouldn’t keep his eighteen-year-old son’s name out of the paper after he got arrested for driving under the influence, Edward blared, “I’ll shut this damn rag down before I kiss that S.O.B.’s ass.”

Our coffee arrived, and Edward piped up with, “What do you make of that Paula character, Phil? You think she’s still in our neighborhood?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I dumped a packet of sugar in my cup. “My guess is she hung around the Garth place last night hoping the police would leave. But I bet the sheriff had someone stake out the place in case she showed up.”

“Yeah. Maybe they nabbed her. Have you talked to Carl this morning?”

“No, I just got to work when you dragged me over here.”

“I thought you might have gone over to the jail before you came to work.”

“Why didn’t I think of that? I should have known you’d want to come out with an extra edition today.”

One side of his mouth twisted into a grinning snarl. “Wiseguy. Yeah, we’ll put out an extra—if you find out who committed those murders.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

His tone turned serious. “You know, the cops may already have snagged her if she got back on the road last night, or this morning.”

“I’ll find out when I talk to the sheriff.”

“Do you think she did it?”

I weighed the idea for half a nanosecond and shrugged. “If she did, she put on a good act. She really went to pieces when she found her friends’ bodies.”

“Maybe it was an act.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Maybe she wanted a witness to see how distraught she’d be when she found them. It would deflect suspicion. Maybe that’s why she hitched a ride with you.”

“Why would she need to come back and find the bodies?”

“Doesn’t the killer always return to the scene of the crime?”

“Right. Sure. Always. But she didn’t exactly strike me as a shrewd and calculating person. She was half drunk.”

“Maybe that was part of her act.” He sat back and stared toward the plate-glass windows at the front of the restaurant. For a moment he seemed lost in thought. Then he leaned forward and said what I didn’t need to be told: “I want to milk this thing for all it’s worth.” He smacked the table, stood up, and dropped a couple dollar bills on it. “Come on, let’s get outta here. We’ve got work to do.”

It wasn’t that Edward’s enthusiasm was infectious. I was accustomed to his fits and starts. But on our way back across the courthouse square, as he blabbered on, I felt something I had not felt in years, a tingle in my belly for my work. My instinct was to resist the tiny quiver of excitement, the way we perversely resist the tug back to life that comes with the spring. But then I saw Paula sitting in my car with her chin down, dazed and lost, staring into the darkness, and I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. I wondered how she had spent the night. I wondered where she was. I wanted to find her.