The waitress, an older woman decked out in a Swiss Miss outfit that laced up her chest and swept the floor, said, “Oh, it’s fish this week. Zeke can’t do more than one thing at a time. He says it confounds him. Next Monday you come in and we’ll have something else. How about some mashed potatoes with all those greens?”
He nodded to Martha and Ed Drapper, who were evidently enjoying their fried cod, cole slaw, and mashed potatoes. She gave him a brilliant smile. He wondered if she recognized him. She wasn’t wearing her glasses. Her left hand was playing with her pearls.
After lunch, as James walked toward the four old men playing cards around the barrel, he saw at least half a dozen cars parked out in front of the World’s Greatest Ice Cream Shop. Popular place. Had the place been here when Harve and Marge came through? Yeah, sure it had. That’s when old Thelma’s rheumy eyes had twitched and her old hands had clenched big time. He might as well get to know the locals before he tracked Susan St. John Brainerd down.
He wasn’t quite certain yet just what he was going to do with her when he found her. The truth, he thought. All he wanted was the truth from her. And he’d get it. He usually did. Then maybe he’d work on the other mystery. If there was another mystery.
Ten minutes later James walked into the World’s Greatest Ice Cream Shop thinking that those four old men weren’t any better liars than Thelma Nettro. Unlike Thelma, they hadn’t said a word, just shook their heads sorrowfully as they looked at each other. One of them had spat after he repeated Harve’s name. That one was Purn Davies. The old man leaning back in the chair had said he’d always fancied having a Winnebago. His name was Gus Eisner. Another one of the men said Gus could fix anything on wheels and kept them all running. The other old man wouldn’t meet his eyes. He couldn’t remember the names of those last two.
It was telling, their behavior. Whatever had happened to Harve and Marge Jensen, everyone he’d met so far knew about it. He was looking forward to trying the World’s Greatest Ice Cream.
The same older woman he’d seen upon his arrival was scooping up what looked to be peach ice cream for a family of tourists who’d probably seen that sign on the road and come west.
The kids were jumping and yelling. The boy wanted Cove Chocolate and the girl wanted French Vanilla.
“You’ve just got the six flavors?” the woman asked.
“Yes, just six. We vary them according to the season. We don’t mass-produce anything.”
The boy whined that now he wanted blueberry ice cream. The chocolate looked too dark.
The older woman behind the counter just smiled down at him and said, “You can’t have it. Either pick another flavor or shut up.”
The mother gasped and stared. “You can’t act like that toward our son, why he’s-”
The older woman smiled back, straightened her lacy white cap, and said, “He’s what, ma’am?”
“He’s a brat,” the husband said. He turned to his son. “What do you want, Mickey? You see the six flavors. Pick one now or don’t have any.”
“I want French Vanilla,” the girl said. “He can have worms.”
“Now, Julie,” the mother said, then licked the ice cream cone the woman handed her. “Oh, goodness, it’s wonderful. Fresh peaches, Rick. Fresh peaches. It’s great.”
The woman behind the counter just smiled. The boy took a chocolate triple-dip cone. James watched the family finally leave. “Yes, can I help you?” “I’d like a peach cone, please, ma’am.” “You’re new to town,” she said as she pulled the scoop through the big tub of ice cream. “You just traveling through?”
“No,” James said, taking the cone. “I’ll be here for a while. I’m trying to find Marge and Harve Jensen.” “Never heard of them.”
James took a lick. He felt as though sweet peaches were sliding down his throat. The woman was a good liar. “The lady was right. This is delicious.” “Thank you. This Marge and Harve-” James repeated the story he’d told to Thelma and Martha and the old men. When he finished, he stuck out his hand and said, “My name is James Quinlan. I’m a private investigator from Los Angeles.”