Free Pitch Black by Susan Crandall Page A

placed his back to the crowd, just in case anyone’s inquisitiveness overrode their good sense.
    He didn’t pick up a menu. Every weekday morning for the past two years Gabe had sat at this table and ate the same breakfast. All he had to do was show up and the rest was on autopilot. So he was a little surprised when the waitress, Little Peggy—who couldn’t be called just Peggy because that was her eighty-five-year-old momma’s name and she was still using it—stopped at his table without coffee or food.
    “Just you this mornin’, Sheriff?” Her eyes traveled to the empty chair across from him.
    “It’s just me every mornin’, darlin’.”
    “Well . . . um, yeah . . . but I heard that yesterday you had some company. I just thought . . . ” She let the suggestion hang there.
    He should nip this now, before Maddie got wind of it. But he kinda liked the idea that people linked the two of them together as a couple.
    He smiled and winked. “Just me today.”
    She tilted her graying head and winked back. “All righty then. I’ll be right back with your coffee.” She started away, then stopped and turned to him again. “Glad to hear that newspaper woman is finally mixing with the rest of us folks. Gotta be lonely, bless her heart.”
    Even with the “bless her heart,” there was an undeniable undertone of censure in the statement. Gabe wondered how long it would be before everyone stopped thinking of Maddie as an outsider, an interloper in their community.
    Probably just after hell froze over.
    Was Maddie lonely? He couldn’t imagine her ever admitting to being lonely. But he agreed with Little Peggy. Sometimes, in unguarded moments, Maddie’s eyes revealed her desire for closeness. But those moments were always gone in a flash, long before he could capitalize on them.
    So far anyway.
    Just after his coffee arrived, so did Dottie Zinn.
    She slid into the chair opposite him. “Morning, Gabe.”
    “Morning, Dot. Surprised to see you here. I thought you shied away from cholesterol in the morning.”
    The waitress arrived and set Gabe’s standing order of bacon, sausage, eggs, grits, and biscuits in front of him.
    Dottie gave a visible shiver. “Jesus, Gabe, you tryin’ to cement up your arteries?” Then she smiled at the waitress and ordered black decaf coffee and oatmeal with skim milk.
    “If I had to eat oatmeal every morning,” he said, “I’d be
looking
for a way out.”
    “Big talk from a strapping, healthy thirty-five-year old.”
    He forked half of a sausage link into his mouth. “Thirty-three.”
    She grunted. “Rub it in.”
    The waitress delivered Dottie’s coffee and a bowl of globular tan muck. Gabe mimicked Dottie’s earlier shiver. “How can you eat that stuff?”
    “I plan on living long enough to annoy my grandchildren. It’s worth the sacrifice.” As she poured the watery-looking milk onto her oatmeal, she said in a quiet tone, “Listen, I just sent Steve McPherson’s body to the forensic pathologist in Knoxville. He said it had been a slow weekend, so we should have his preliminary results tonight.”
    “Slow weekend, huh? He and the undertakers are probably the only people who are disappointed.”
    “Hey, don’t get sassy.” She pointed her spoon at him. “Somebody’s gotta do those jobs. Besides, he read me the report on Zach Gilbert that you’ll be receiving later today.”
    Gabe’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “And?”
    “Cause of death is officially heart failure. Kid’s cholesterol was sky high, he had liver cysts—”
    “And let me guess, toxicology screen tested positive for anabolic steroid use.”
    She nodded.
    “Damn. I hate to have to tell a mother her kid’s death was totally avoidable. What a friggin’ waste.”
    “I’ll contact the Gilberts. You’ve delivered more than your share of bad news this past week. Of course, that’s only half the issue.”
    He set down his fork and exhaled. “I’ll talk to the football coach today—make