Free An Order of Coffee and Tears by Brian Spangler

Ms. Potts.
    “Almost two-hundred cases have come across my desk in my career. Do you know how many are left open?” he asked, then turned to Clark, and then to me, and back to Ms. Potts. “I know you know. Don’t you, Ms. Potts? How about you, Clark, I know you know, too. Why don’t you both tell Miss Gabby, here, how many cases I might be leaving open before they cart me off to rot in a retirement community, or old-folks home, or wherever it is they push out old dogs to die?” Ms. Potts and Clark passed words with their eyes, and then I saw Ms. Potts mouth the word ‘one’.
    “What was that? Say it. I want to hear you say it!” the detective said, raising his voice.
    “One, sir. It is one case,” Ms. Potts answered, her voice breathy and weak.
    “YES, it is. One in my entire career, I’ve solved all but one case!” he bellowed loudly, as though preaching to a room of followers. “Well, how about that? But maybe I’m not done. Maybe Philadelphia’s finest is going to get a shock when I come in with my final one case solved!” he chortled, and then coughed up more sediment. He pulled in a mouthful of coffee and forced it down.
    “Can’t you just let it go?” Ms. Potts began to ask, “Can’t you please let this thing go?” The detective dropped his coffee cup to the table, and grabbed his fedora. As he stood in front of me, he put himself back together with a practiced efficiency. Within seconds, the dark figure I’d first glimpsed under the street light was standing in front of us. He lifted his head to reveal his face, and answered.
    “Because, Ms. Potts, you and Clark, your ex-con, there, are guilty of killing a man. Guilty of a murder. I know it in my heart. And you know it, too. I aim to finish this,” he said evenly, and made his way to the door. Murder? Ms. Potts and Clark? Ex-con? Who have I been working with for the last year? This had to be a mistake. There was no way!
    When the bell above the door rang, tension spilled out of the diner like the snow falling to the ground, only to be replaced by a mountain of questions. But the detective didn’t leave, not at first, anyway. He closed the door briefly, and turned back to face us again.
    “By the way, word on the street is that Angela’s Diner is for sale. There’s also word that there might be an interested buyer; very interested. And they have no plans on keeping your little diner – they’ll be tearing it down. And we all know what that means,” he finished. Then he opened the door to leave. Snow flew in high above him, and low around him. It spiraled in the air with a momentum carried by the winter wind pushing inside. When the door closed, the hovering snow fell to the floor, settling on Clark, who was shaking his head, and clearing the broken glass.
    Ms. Potts approached the booth where the detective had sat. Her steps were slow, and seemed crippled. When she reached the booth, she clutched the table, and held herself up. She pushed on her glasses and gulped for air. She gave a worried look first to Clark, and then to me. I wanted to run to her. I wanted to take her hands and help her sit. I wanted to tell her it would be okay. But I didn’t. I didn’t do anything.
    Later, when I’d finally rested my head on my pillow, I dreamed about the snow storm. But it wasn’t a happy dream. It wasn’t filled with the same excitement I’d felt earlier. Instead, I saw the deserted street in front of Angela’s Diner. A blinding rush of falling snow covered the cars and the lawns and the buildings. I saw the figure of a dark man wearing a fedora, standing directly under a street light. An orange-yellow glow surrounded him as he laughed a hideous sound. Ms. Potts’ body lay at his feet, motionless. A spread of blood grew and reddened the snow around her while the detective’s heinous laughter echoed like the rolling of distant thunder.

7
     

    A few weeks had gone by since experiencing my first actual snow storm. More than thirty inches