Free Murder at the Book Fair by Steve Demaree Page A

eat."
     
    +++
     
    In a weak moment Lou and I decided
to walk to Rick's White Light Diner. It was only sixth-tenths of a mile, or a
thirteen minute walk. Besides that, we got to walk over the Kentucky River on the singing bridge to get
there. It would be a moment I could share with my great-great-great
grandchildren someday. Encouraging us to take our walk was a sunny day and
temperatures above normal for November. We had a good walk over, the bridge
sang but it didn't fall, and we arrived safely.
    When I first saw the place that
was somewhat smaller than a walk-in closet, I had a feeling the diner started
out on Folly Island but a strong wind lifted it and deposited it right next
to the bridge. When I opened the door and stepped inside I had the idea that
the walls were used for storage for someone's upcoming yard sale, and it didn't
take me long to zero in on the colorful character who was the owner.
    Being the refined person that he
is, Lou selected eggs benedict for his breakfast. I was torn between the
buckwheat pancakes and Rick's Famous Crawfish Pie, and figured I could get
pancakes at McDonald's, but McDonald's doesn't serve crawfish pie.
    As we sat there my thoughts
wandered back and forth between listening to the owner and thinking of the
diner where Lou and I used to eat most of our meals back home, the Blue Moon
Diner. The Blue Moon was larger and lacked the wall decorations that donned the
walls at Rick's, and when I was at the Blue Moon I was the biggest character
there.
    I caught Rick's ear long enough to
tell him who I was and for him to deny he was wherever it was that the crime
that we were investigating happened. He admitted to knowing Bert McHugh, who
stopped by from time to time for breakfast or lunch, but he had no idea who
Cyril Portwood was. His guess was that it was a house wine in some restaurant
much different than the White Light Diner. He said that McHugh usually came in
with someone, but that he couldn't say for sure if he was there on the previous
Friday. As expected, our trip to the diner resulted only in some good exercise
followed by and preceded by a memorable meal.  
    Lou and I talked on our walk back,
both about the case that had so far baffled us, and the food at and the owner
of the diner where we enjoyed breakfast. When we got back to the Capital Plaza we took the elevator to our rooms to brush and floss. I
picked up a jacket, just in case the weather cooled down before we returned
from our travels of the day. November has a habit of being cooler than August,
so we have to be prepared to dress a little warmer. Once we zipped down the
elevator it was a straight shot after we popped up out of the garage, turned,
and headed up the hill toward Lawrenceburg.
     
     
16
     
     
    Sometimes people who volunteer at
certain places do so in order to benefit themselves in one way or another, but
I was working on the assumption that neither Arnold nor Susie Hammond had
murdered Portwood. So, I called them to make sure they would be home when Lou
and I arrived. They gave me directions on how to get to their house. I was glad
they did. It only took me two days to get there by car. Many miles after the
smells of a distillery were washed away by the smell of the Salt River we were far enough removed from
civilization that we found the Hammond 's
house. They might have had company before, but I doubt if it was anyone from a
large city. Finally, when I came to a road that had white lines painted on the
outside of the road I figured I'd come to the right road, although whoever had
painted it had run out of paint before finishing their masterpiece. Either that
or it was okay to run off the road in certain places. Eventually I found their
house and upon seeing the couple my first impression was that neither of them
was a hardened criminal. They looked more like a couple you might want to share
a meal with, or someone who would be willing to tell you about their
grandchildren. But then only grandparents of